


Fractured

by Rae666



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Manipulation, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-01-04 06:40:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21193262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rae666/pseuds/Rae666
Summary: Dean Winchester knows who he is. He remembers it all, from the first time he fired a gun to his first kiss. What he can't remember is the face in front of him claiming to be his brother. Someone is lying to him and with his memory so fractured, uncovering the truth could have deadly consequences. Dean-centric.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a request from milkysupernova. It's been in the works for a little while but I've finally had the chance now to sit down and work on it. It's set to be about 5 or 6 chapters long, and I will warn you, it does contain and deal with darker themes such as suicide and suicidal thoughts, along with manipulation. So I've rated it M for these reasons and added trigger warnings for anyone who might be affected by these.
> 
> Set early Season 14.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Prologue

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

_"Dean! Watch out!"_

_The voice came from behind, familiar yet distant despite its proximity, and Dean swung around just in time to send another head rolling with his machete. He was just adjusting his grip, hoping for a moment's breath, when he felt hands on his shoulders and sharp teeth against his neck._

That was when he woke, jolting upright in his bed. His heart hammered in his chest, _th-thump, th-thump, th-thump, _sweat rolling over him, making him feel damp and cold and uncomfortable in the sheets tangled around him. Hand moving to his neck, he swallowed hard as he moved it away and looked down, half expecting to see blood. But there was none and he blinked slowly, staring down at his hand in the grey light of the early morning that danced in through the open curtains.

Even though the feelings lingered, he could already feel the dream slipping away. Or was it a nightmare? Running his hand up and through his sweat soaked hair, he wasn't sure of the answer, but it was the second time he had had such a dream and that had to mean something, right? Even if he couldn't remember what that something was, or why the voice in the dream sounded like someone he should know, he knew… it had to mean something.

"Dean!" a different voice called through the doorway, feminine but forceful. "You up?"

"Yeah," he began to call back, before clearing his throat and trying again, dragging himself free of the sheets and throwing his legs off the bed as he did so. "Yeah, Abby. I'm up."

"Good," was the reply "'Cause I made breakfast."

And that was all Dean needed to hear.

He pulled a pair of jeans on over his boxers and trudged from the room toward the bathroom to freshen up. It was when he was in front of the mirror, splashing cold water on his face, that he paused. His eyes flitted up to the scar at the edge of his hairline above his left eye. Even after a month, it was still visible. Sure, it had long since stopped aching, but the more lasting impact of the wound remained.

Just over a month ago, he had woken up in hospital with absolutely no recollection as to how he had gotten there. He remembered his name, remembered his first kiss, first time shooting a gun. He remembered that John Winchester was his father and that Mary was his mother. He remembered that he was a hunter through and through and that he saved people. Or tried to. But there were bits and pieces of memories that escaped him, no matter how hard he tried to grab onto them. Where he was and what he was doing before he ended up in hospital. Hell, even where he was a year before. It was all fuzzy. Like there was a fog there that refused to clear.

Abigail had given him the rundown of what the doctor had said. Post-traumatic amnesia or something of the like. A result of whatever head injury he had sustained. A common side effect, which was most likely temporary. Best case scenario, he could recover in a few weeks. Worst case? It could be months, or years – if at all.

Considering it had already passed the first month mark, things weren't looking good. Hell, it had taken him a good few days to remember Abigail, and if he was honest – just over a week before he started to trust her. But that was the life they led. Being paranoid came with the job.

_"Dean, it's me. Abigail."_ There had been pain in her eyes as she pleaded, nodding her head, eager for him to remember. _"I'm your sister. Surely you remember that?"_

Even after the memories started to filter in, he still didn't trust her, or himself, constantly asking her random little questions, trying to catch her off guard.

_"Hey, remember that ghoul we hunted? Back at Blackwater Ridge?"_

_"It was a Wendigo, Dean,"_ was her answer.

And it was always like that. Whatever she said correlated with what he remembered. Even if he didn't remember the details, the little things he did know… she was always right. So he stopped asking, and started trusting, because the more he was with her, the more the memories came back and the more she felt like the annoying little sister he had to protect and less like the stranger by his bedside.

He tilted his neck to the side and peered closer at the mark there, close to his collarbone. It wasn't the first time he had noticed it, or ran his fingers over what were clearly teeth marks. Hell, it wasn't even the only visible wound on his body, but at least with most of the others he remembered how he had gotten them. This one though, it was a blur – a blur that matched far too well with the dream he had been startled from.

"Dean!" Abby called once more, impatience coming through her tone. "Your eggs are getting cold!"

With a grunt and a roll of his eyes, he tore himself away from the mirror and made his way along the hall toward the kitchen and dining area. It was a small apartment, but it was big enough for them. Certainly beat staying in a motel room until he was recovered, because they had made a deal – him and Abby. Or rather, she had bullied him into a deal. No hunting, just for now – until they knew the full extent of Dean's injuries and what impact it could have on him. In other words, he was a liability. So for now, it was safer this way.

"Eggs?" Dean questioned as he took his seat at the small table in the kitchen, looking down at the scrambled eggs on his plate before looking up to Abby as she worked at the stove with a frying pan. The smell hit him immediately and he smiled. "_And_ bacon? If I didn't know any better I'd say you have a guilty conscience."

She paused but didn't turn to look at him, her words nonchalant, thrown over her shoulder, along with waves of her brown hair. "If you don't want it, I can find someone else to give it to."

"Hey, now… no… don't even joke about that," he answered, eagerly pushing his plate forward when she turned around with the pan.

She placed the bacon on his plate with a smile on her lips that echoed the shine in her eyes, but when she looked up and met his gaze, it disappeared to be replaced by a frown, worry etching into the lines of her face. "You look like crap..."

"Yeah well, you would too if you'd had nightmares all night." He didn't look to her, simply focused on the plate and dragged it back toward himself with one hand whilst he grabbed his fork with the other. He could already feel himself salivating at the sight and scent of the breakfast, a wide grin splitting across his face. Looking up, he wriggled his eyebrows in appreciation but the excitement soon drained from his features at the look on Abby's face. "What?"

"Nightmares, Dean?" she questioned, lowering herself into the seat opposite.

He offered up a half hearted scoff and shrug. "It's hardly the first time either of us has had nightmares."

Chewing at her lip, she looked him over, but pushed up and turned away again before Dean could read her face properly. "I just worry. After everything we've faced… it's things like this that scare me the most."

'Things like this' being normal, human threats – the ones that so often took them too close to the brink of death. A failing heart, a blade to the chest… a bad knock to the head. His hand automatically went up to the wound at his hairline. "Did you try Cas again?"

Not that Cas could fix whatever was keeping Dean from remembering, but he was more capable than the doctors at the hospital they'd left a few states over.

"He's still not answering," she said, tone flat. No doubt feeling defeated at the lack of response from their friend. It left Dean wondering if there was more to their last hunt than Abby had told him.

When he had woken up, once they had gotten past the initial and most obvious questions, she had told him he had been hurt during a hunt. From there she had gone on to pack his things up into a duffel bag, throwing him some clothes as she looked out into the hallway of the hospital. She didn't say much beyond that they needed to get out of there and find some place safe. Apparently they had pissed someone off and needed to lie low until Dean was recovered. It was like the Leviathans all over again. No Impala, no bunker, no usual aliases.

A day had turned to a week, a week to a month… and so here they were today. No further forward than before.

Dean watched her work at the sink for a moment, his thoughts swirling around in his mind, fingers absently scratching at the mark on his neck. He opened his mouth then closed it before swallowing hard and clearing his throat, finally deciding to speak up. "Hey, Abby… that hunt… the one that got us here?"

"What about it?" she asked, a stiffness to her shoulders that only disappeared when she turned around to face him again with a cocked head.

"Were we hunting vampires?"

Her gaze fell down a moment, but the look in her eyes was gone when she met his again. "Why do you ask?"

"These dreams… I can't help but feel like there's more to them. Like maybe I'm remembering bits and pieces. I didn't think much of it the other night-"

"The other night?" she interrupted. "In other words, this isn't the first time?"

He pursed his lips and shrugged.

"Why didn't you tell me?" She put the cloth in her hands down on the table. "I'm supposed to be looking out for you, Dean, until you're better. I need to know these things."

"I didn't want to get your hopes up." He held his hands out and open in front of him. "Neither of us are the sitting around and waiting type. I figured if I'm going stir crazy being kicked to the bench, you must be going nuts having to play nurse. And no offence, but my little sister? Not exactly the kind of nurse fantasies I usually have in mind."

She shook her head, eyes closed, and brushed her hands up and through her hair, letting go of a long breath. "Just promise me you won't keep things like this to yourself." She opened her eyes and met his gaze, her own almost lost and pleading. "I can't lose you, Dean."

"I'm not going anywhere, Abby. You're stuck with me."

It was another moment before she spoke again, and when she did, it was with a wrinkled up nose as she looked him up and down, grabbing her keys and her purse in the process. "You should hurry up and eat that, then go take a shower. You smell worse than that ghoul back in Dodge City."

Dean gave himself a quick whiff and couldn't argue, so instead looked to her own abandoned plate of food then back to her as she made her way toward the door. "Where are you going?"

"I've got some errands to run."

"Errands?"

"Yeah, errands," she repeated, pausing at the door to point toward the fridge. "Who do you think keeps us from running out of milk?"

He held his hands up in defeat and said nothing further as she slipped out the door and out on her way. Still, he couldn't help but think how she had never answered his earlier question regarding the vampires. Whether she thought she was protecting him, or whether it was something else, Dean couldn't help the nagging feeling that she was lying to him. If he could just remember what had happened on their last hunt, he was sure everything else would click into place.

Until then, he did as Abigail suggested and finished his breakfast before grabbing a quick shower. He had his own place to be, and judging by the clock on the kitchen wall, he was already running late. Once dressed, he grabbed his own keys and was outside in the fresh air before he had even managed to pull his coat on fully. Looking up to the sky, he took note of the bright sun and lack of clouds. It looked like it was going to be a good day, which was a bonus for him because he still had a twenty minute walk ahead of him before he reached the garage.

Hands digging deep into his pockets, he set off down the street, attention focused on the path and day ahead. He never saw the watchful eyes following his every move from across the road. Never heard the distant ringing and click of the cell phone, followed by a deep, gruff 'hello?', or the response that came after, filled with relief and hope and desperation all at once.

"I've found him, Cas."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.


	2. Chapter 2

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

House of Memories

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Dean had long come to terms with the fact that hunting was in his blood. Whatever the reason – divine intervention, family ties, the need for something more – it was what he was good at. It was what he was best at. So not hunting? It drove him to the point of madness. What was he supposed to do? Sit around in that apartment all day until his memories came back? _If_ his memories even came back. No. That wasn't him.

Despite promising not to hunt, following through on that? That was the hardest part of being stuck in that small town in the middle of nowhere. He wouldn't tell Abby about the printed out newspaper articles hidden under the bottom drawer of his dresser, or about the trips to the library. He wouldn't tell her about his visit to the next town over because it had been a full moon and someone had turned up at hospital, attacked by a wild animal. It had been a bust – a case of rabies that left Dean with a still itchy trigger finger.

She could see he was restless, and when he had passed by a garage with a 1969 Dodge Charger parked out the front with the hood up, he couldn't help but take a look inside and he couldn't help but take note of the 'help wanted' sign in the window of the garage. Because if there was anything else, besides hunting, that Dean Winchester was good at, it was cars.

He started the following day. Or rather, Dean Jacobs did, and he had been working there for what would be three weeks now. It paid the rent, which meant they didn't have to rely on fake credit cards or hustling pool, and it kept Dean busy. It gave him something to focus on.

He was under the hood of a brand spanking new Camaro, so young that if it were a kid, it would still be in diapers. The whole while, he cursed, staring down at the blasphemous contraption that should never have made it past the concept stage, let alone be allowed to see the light of day.

"You know, back when I was a kid – a car was a car. If something broke, you either fixed it or replaced it. None of this computer crap. Error code 5614 or whatever." He pulled back and swiped the back of his hand across his head at the sweat on his brow, his eyes finding the head mechanic and owner of the garage, Jimmy Russo.

Jimmy leaned against the doorframe to the office, mug of coffee in hand, and scoffed, smile tracing the edges of his lips and lighting up his eyes. "Tell that to my kid. He's got one of those electric cars. Heated seats, climate control, automatic mirrors. All the bells and whistles. Could fly you to the moon and back, but God forbid you get a flat. Junior wouldn't have a clue where to start. But hey, that's why you've got guys like us, right? Even if all these newer models are more computer than car these days."

"Give me an old fashioned Mustang any day, " Tommy added from the car he was working on. He was Jimmy's nephew and the only other mechanic working at the garage. He pulled himself free and looked toward the clock on the wall before dusting his hands off on his overalls, no doubt deciding it was almost dinner time. "Tell us, Deano – what's your ride again?"

"'67 Impala," Dean answered with a wistful smile. What he would give to have her back with him there and then. But, a black 1967 Chevrolet Impala was a little too conspicuous when you were meant to be lying low. They had learned that with the leviathans.

"And when you gonna bring her 'round? Let Tommy here have a little test drive."

Dean snorted and leaned against the side of the Camaro. "I had to leave her with a friend out of state."

"Ouch."

"Tell me about it."

None of them got the chance to say much further, a light knock at the doorway to the garage drawing their attention. Dean smiled immediately at the sight of Abby standing there, half in and half out, holding a paper bag in one hand and tray with takeaway coffee cups in the other.

"Hey! What you doing here?" He pushed away from the Camaro and made his way toward her, eyes narrowing on the bag and cups. "Still running errands?"

"I thought I'd bring you lunch. Figured it would be better than you filling up on burgers and too much cholesterol." She beamed back at him, offering him the bag. "I made it myself."

He took it but didn't lose his suspicion and curiosity, keeping his eyes on her whilst opening it. "I swear, if this is a salad…" But he never finished the threat. They both knew he would never follow through on it anyway. Instead he looked down into the bag and at the sandwiches and pursed his lips, raising an eyebrow at her. "You made… sandwiches?"

"I know, my culinary skills know no bounds."

Reaching into the bag, he pulled one out and opened it up. Peanut butter and jelly. But that wasn't the thing that caught him off guard the most. "And you cut the crusts off?"

She shrugged. "Look, I know I don't remember much of mom from when we were kids, but I know she used to do that for you and I just… I thought it might help trigger something. With your memories. I mean, sense are known to be a great trigger for memories, so I just thought… well, what harm could it do?"

He nodded, a smile tugging at his lips. "Thanks, Abby."

"Oh, and here," she continued, holding out the cups but taking one of the four from the tray for herself. "For you and the guys." She tapped each one in turn as she continued. "Extra shot of caramel for Tommy. Double cream for Jimmy, because what his wife doesn't know won't hurt her. And of course, black – for you."

"You know me so well," he answered with a grin, accepting the cups. He bobbed his head over his shoulder, motioning back toward where the guys were settling down with their own lunch. "Why don't you come in for a bit? You always say you should learn more about cars."

"Yeah, think I'll give it a rain check. Was thinking I'd hit the books again, maybe make a few calls… See if maybe we missed something earlier."

He nodded and started backing away as she did the same. "Your loss, and hey – if you finally get a hold of Cas, tell him to get his feathery ass over here so I can kick it. What's he doing that's so important he can't pick up the phone?"

She rolled her eyes and waved him off, turning away and heading out onto the street once more as he joined the guys at the back of the garage. They had left a seat for him on a pile of tyres, each gratefully accepting the coffee cups they were offered – even if Jimmy did make a small show of pretending he shouldn't really accept his.

"Okay, so here's what I don't get," Tommy spoke up, his thick Brooklyn accent coming through clearly. He only continued to speak when both Dean and Jimmy looked to him with raised eyebrows. That was when Tommy pointed toward the now empty doorway. "What's a sweet thing like that doing bringing _you_ lunch?"

"Steady on, Casanova," Dean warned, mostly in jest, but with enough of a hint in his eye to show there was a line that shouldn't be crossed. "That's my sister."

Tommy laughed. "You warning me off, Deano?"

"Oh, I don't have to. Abby's got enough bite to match her bark."

"I bet she does."

Dean raised an eyebrow, steady and careful. "You wanna wear that lunch, Tommy?"

Tommy held his hands up in front of him. "Easy, Deano. I'm just messing with ya. I know when a guy's sister or daughter or cousin is off limits. It's the wives you gotta watch 'round me." He sent a wink toward Jimmy, his smile almost splitting his face. "Ain't that right, Uncle Jimmy?"

"I'd say he's all talk," Jimmy answered with a roll of the eyes, "but he's had the black eyes to prove it."

"And you can bet I still looked better than the other guy."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

For Sam, the six weeks Dean had been missing had felt far longer. The first night had been a blur – a weird haze of panic and fear. They were finishing up a hunt and Sam had gone on ahead. By the time he got back, Dean was gone. He followed the usual routines – phone call after phone call, voicemail after voicemail. The closest he came to anything was the John Doe at the hospital the next town over. He got there just in time to be told by a nurse the man had checked out only a few minutes earlier.

From there, there was nothing. No leads, no clues. He checked the CCTV of course, and within moments he had been able to find John Doe. There was no denying that it was Dean. The problem was that he wasn't alone. The nurse had told Sam about a young woman he had left the hospital with and it was safe to assume she was the same young woman escorting Dean from the hospital. But she was careful. She kept her face hidden and down the whole time and the nurse couldn't remember ever hearing her name. So Sam was sent straight back to square one, until he had decided to go back over the footage in one last, desperate attempt to find something.

Out in the parking lot, the car was barely in the frame, and he never saw any passengers get in, but he saw the driver – a young woman with dark hair, glancing over her shoulder in such a way that Sam cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. The footage wasn't the greatest, but he knew – it was her. It took a bit of time to clean up the footage enough to get the details on the plate, but once he did, he was on the road in no time.

That was how he ended up sitting across the road from a small town garage, sipping at the world's worst cup of coffee and barely caring, as his gaze followed what little of the movements he could see inside. In particular, the movements of his brother – or whatever was pretending to _be_ his brother.

"Sam?" Cas questioned again through the speaker of the cell phone Sam had placed on the dash of the rent-a-car he was currently sat in. "Sam? Can you hear me?"

Sam blinked and cleared his throat, shaking the absent thoughts from his mind and focusing his attention back on the conversation. "Yeah, I hear you, Cas."

"Do you need me there?" Cas asked, in such a way that suggested it wasn't the first time he was asking and that Sam hadn't heard him.

"No," Sam answered with a shake of his head, "no, Cas." He let go of a breath and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. "Until we know what we're dealing with, it could make things worse. If they sense your presence, they'll just run again."

"You think it could be angels?"

"At this point, I'm not ruling anything out." Sam looked out across the street once more, taking in the figure that emerged from the garage. It looked like Dean. Moved like Dean. Even smiled and laughed like Dean, and therein laid the problem. Sam couldn't remember the last time his brother laughed that freely, the last time he looked almost at peace. "It's taken me this long to track him down. I'm not risking losing him again."

It was why he had left the Impala behind. Until he had things figured out, he was left with little choice but to watch from afar. He needed to know for certain if it was Dean or some shapeshifter pretending to be him, or worse – something possessing him. If Michael had… Sam closed his eyes and swallowed hard, cutting off the line of thought before it could continue. He had lost Dean to Michael once before. He refused to let it happen again.

"Sam," Cas continued, voice determined and strong, "if anyone can bring him home, you can."

"Thanks, Cas," Sam answered, but it was apathetic and unenthusiastic, an automatic response, his focus on Dean as he began heading down the street in the fading light of the day. Sam reached for the keys and turned the engine over in response. "I've got to go – I'll call you back later."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Another week passed before Dean had anymore dreams – or rather, dreams that revolved around dark corridors of an abandoned building. Dreams filled with familiar voices that he couldn't quite pinpoint in his memory. Dreams of blood and teeth and pain. It started as it had before, flashes in his mind, blurring together. Images and sounds all muddled up, until he was in that dark, dark corridor once more with the voice calling his name in warning.

_"Dean! Watch out!"_

_He swung once more, machete in hand, and ended the vampire behind him, but this time, when he felt the teeth of the second vampire grazing his neck, he didn't wake up. The fangs ripped into his neck and he struggled against the vampire, until he finally felt it go limp against him and the owner of the voice pulled it away, swinging his own blade at the vamp's neck and allowing the vampire to fall to the ground._

_Dean held his hand up to his throat, reaching out to the wall and stumbling closer until he could lean his shoulder against it. The blood loss already leaving him lightheaded. His saviour, the owner of the earlier voice, hovered in front of him, but Dean struggled to see his face. At best he could make out shaggy brown hair and a tall physique, but all the details were as fuzzy and cloudy as his head was in that moment._

_"Dean!" the voice called, strong hands holding onto him, worry lacing the name so heavily. "Dean, you with me?"_

_"Go," Dean ordered, closing his eyes against the pain and dizziness. He pointed his machete down the corridor. "I'm fine. Go, get the kid!"_

That was when he woke up, once more coated in sweat, heart hammering hard. He took a moment to gather himself before glancing over at the clock on the bedside table, blinking as he tried to make it out and grabbing it when it took a moment too long for his vision to focus.

"Son of a…" he cursed at the time he saw, before replacing the clock and scrubbing his hands across his face.

It was turned dinnertime. He couldn't remember the last time he had slept so long. Part of him wondered why Abby hadn't woken him, then he remembered it was a Saturday and her shift at the gas station started early on weekends – because, after all, he wasn't the only one who struggled with being cooped up all day.

Another glance at the clock and he chewed at his lip in thought. It would be a good few hours before Abigail finished her shift and made her way back to the apartment. That meant a good few hours he could borrow her laptop for research. The dreams he was having, he was sure they were memories, and if Abigail was reluctant to tell him about their last hunt, he decided it was time to search for the details himself.

Mind made up, he showered and dressed and headed to the kitchen for coffee and breakfast/dinner, setting the laptop up in front of him on the table. He polished off the toast beside him before the laptop was finished loading and was just starting on the bacon when he was signed in and ready to go, browser open in front of him, empty and eagerly awaiting his search.

"Right," he said, rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms out in front of him. His fingers hovered above the keys, the blinking line in the search bar staring up at him, waiting… waiting… waiting. He chewed at the pad of his thumb, brow burrowing. It was easy to find something when you knew what you were looking for, which Dean did not.

He sat back a moment and picked up another piece of bacon, staring idly at the screen in contemplation. He was so focused on that, that when he reached for his cup, he knocked it over and sent the coffee flying across the table and the paperwork that sat there. "Damn it…"

Most of it was junk mail, he noted as he grabbed a towel and began mopping up the coffee, but some of it was bills and a mixture of menus and leaflets that had yet to find their way into the trash. He was nearly finished clearing up the mess when he spotted the leaflet near the bottom of the pile. 'SAVE THE HOSPITAL'. He stared at the words, peeling the damp paper away from the rest, and that was when it hit him like a ton of bricks.

Dropping the soggy leaflet and abandoning the towel, he rushed back to his chair and the laptop, rolling up his sleeves as he began tapping away at the keyboard. Aside from the dreams, he couldn't remember their last hunt, so he had to go back to the last thing he did remember. The hospital. From there, it was a matter of searching news articles and police reports from a month or two prior for towns surrounding that hospital.

He had just pulled up an article about a jogger in the woods found drained of blood when something else caught his eye and gave him pause. In the side margin of the browser, a local story sat almost buried by the bold headlines and overly revealing pictures from trashy tabloid pieces. He hesitated, gaze flicking back and forth from the jogger story to the one that seemed to glare right at him, staring into his very soul.

No hunting. No. It probably wasn't even their kind of thing anyway – like the rabies case them couple of weeks back. It was nothing… just a couple of missing kids from a couple of towns over.

"Ah crap," he cursed, breathing out and thumping a light fist against the table before clicking on the story, already mentally ticking off what gear he had ready to go in his duffel bag upstairs.

He was a hunter, and hunters knew a case when they saw one.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.


	3. Chapter 3

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Free Falling

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

"And you're sure?" Dean asked, cell phone to his ear as he paced the kitchen floor beside the table. He stopped mid-step and turned back toward the laptop, swinging it around to face him as he leaned in close to it, focusing on the map he had opened.

"Agent Smith," the Sheriff from the next couple of towns over answered down the line, "I've never been surer of anything."

Dean bobbed his head, offering up a brief thanks before hanging up and setting his phone down on the table in order to use both hands on the laptop. Brow burrowed in deep concentration, he zoomed in further on the map at the woodland area surrounding the town. It wasn't marked on the map, but the Sheriff had told him about some old hunting cabins that were a little out of the way but easy enough to find.

After reading through the news article on the missing children and doing a little digging, Dean was almost certain he knew what they were dealing with. He knew what it was, how to kill it, and now, he knew where to find it. It had been a long time since he had come up against a rawhead, but he knew that if there was any chance those kids were still alive, he had to act now.

Snatching up his phone, he straightened up and scrolled through the small list of contacts until he came to Abby's name. It was there that he stalled, pad of his thumb hovering over the dial button. He knew he should press the button. He knew, that at the very least, he should tell her where he was planning to go, but there was a gnawing in his chest that gave him pause. He couldn't say what it was – perhaps it was the need to prove himself, to prove that he was fine, that he could hunt – but rather than calling her, he swiped back to the home screen and stared down at the phone a moment longer.

He was about to put the phone in his pocket when another thought came to him and he went back into his contact list. This time he found Castiel's name and took a breath before pressing the call button and bringing the phone up to his ear. After his old phone had broken, during that hunt he couldn't remember, he had gotten a fresh one and copied the contacts over from Abby's phone.

Just like the last time, and the time before that, and the time before that, the phone didn't even ring, it just clicked immediately and went straight into voicemail. Dean breathed out and closed his eyes, bringing the top of the phone up to his forehead as Castiel's voice played out through the small speaker.

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice... a mail."

"Damn it, Cas. Where are you, man?" Dean cursed, before putting the phone to his ear once more. "Cas, it's me… call me. Please."

He shook his head and hung up before he could say anything further. It was hardly the first time Cas had been unreachable, but given everything that had happened, having his friend to talk to… There were things he couldn't say to Abby. She would worry. She _did_ worry. And now Dean was worrying too. What had happened on their last case that Abby was keeping from him? That his _mind_ was keeping from him?

He reached up to touch the scar at his hairline, brushing his fingertips against the raised bump as if it would spark some kind of memory that actually meant something. If he was right and his dreams were mixed up memories, then that meant they hadn't been alone on their last hunt. Someone else had been there too, someone who had known them. He felt a twinge in his chest, his stomach dropping a little at the gnawing thought he tried not to acknowledge.

Had Cas been hurt?

He shook the thought away and scrubbed his hands over his face. No. He had a monster to kill and kids to save, so Dean Winchester would do what Dean Winchester did best. He would shove all that worry and hurt and confusion down and he would go out there and do his damn job.

It didn't take long for him to shut the laptop down and scribble a quick note for Abby that read '_Gone for drinks with the guys'_. He stuck it to the fridge with a smiley faced magnet and went on to grab what supplies he needed – namely a Taser and the keys to the beat up old Ford they were currently using for transport – and headed out into the late afternoon air, knowing he only had a couple of hours left until darkness started creeping in. Maybe that was why he cursed at the piece of junk car that wouldn't start at first, or more likely, it was because he missed his sweet and sleek Impala and riding another car felt like he was cheating on her.

"I'm sorry, Baby," he murmured with closed eyes and a shake of his head as he thought about the dust she would be gathering. Then he tried the key again and breathed a sigh of relief when the car finally started.

Dean made it to the cabins in just over an hour and could already see the first signs of evening tainting the sky, the sun having disappeared below the treetops, leaving long shadows on the ground. He parked up and climbed from the car, keeping his eyes open and focused on his surroundings as he headed to the trunk and opened it up. Leaning in, he picked up a flashlight in one hand and the Taser in the other, distant and familiar words echoing at the back of his mind.

_"What you got those amped up to?"_

_"A hundred thousand volts."_

_"Damn…"_

_"Yeah, I want this rawhead extra friggin' crispy."_

He turned to his right, half expecting to see someone standing there with him, his mind reaching out for the brief flash of memory. But before he could grab on too tight, pain sliced through his head, blossoming out like brain freeze, and he squeezed his eyes closed against it, pressing the heel of his right palm against his brow until it passed.

"Damn it," he cursed, but before he could think much more on it or give himself chance to recover, a child's scream echoed out through the dusk air. He was slamming the trunk closed and racing off toward the cabins before his mind even had time to catch up with him, the reaction so automatic, so ingrained in him.

There were only three cabins to choose from, and given the direction and distance of the scream, Dean chose the one in the centre of the small clearing, set a little further back than the other two. It wasn't until he was approaching the door that he slowed his pace, adapting a stealthier approach. Taser at the ready, and flashlight tucked into his jacket for when he needed it, he climbed the steps up to the door with caution, listening out the whole time for any further noise.

He reached out and turned the handle, slow and steady, and pushed the door open, giving himself a moment to adjust to the different light. He didn't want to use the flashlight too soon and give himself away, not when he still had the element of surprise. He only had one shot at this and he was determined not to waste it.

A scurrying of feet echoed on the floorboards upstairs and he turned his gaze upwards. Much too light to be the rawhead, which meant that had to be the children. He cast another glance around the desolate room then made him way toward the small wooden staircase to his left.

He crept up, staying as silent as he could, eyes darting back and forth across what he could see of the landing, until he was on the last step. A door slammed shut at the end of the landing and he swung to face it. After another check around him, he headed to the door and pushed it open carefully.

In the dim light of the room, he barely even caught sight of them – the two young children cowering in the corner, huddled up against each other. He held his hands up to show he wasn't a threat, edging forward and further into the room.

"It's okay, I'm here to help."

But the words barely left his mouth as he registered the absolute terror in their eyes and saw their gazes dart right, behind the door. He knew then it was coming, before it even did, but he was already too late to react. Too late to stop the impact.

The door slammed, the rawhead shot forward, charging him and sending him toward the wall opposite. Dean landed with a thump and umph, attempting to collect himself as the rawhead stalked forward, surprisingly fast for its size. He had forgotten how strong these guys were, and how quick too.

He made it to his feet, shoulder aching from the impact. Oh yeah, that was gonna bruise. He could feel it already, with each movement as he headed further into the room, luring the rawhead away from the door.

"Come on, you son of a bitch," he taunted, eyes focused on the rawhead as he swept his spare hand toward the children, motioning for them to head toward the door and make their escape.

They did just that, darting along the walls whilst the creature was distracted, pale eyes locked on Dean. It was on him again in no time, swiping at him with its claw, toughened nails biting through the skin of his cheek, the force of the blow leaving Dean too disoriented to react or recover. That same claw gripped his neck and lifted him up a good foot from the floor, squeezing tighter and tighter until Dean let go of the Taser, desperately fighting to pull those thick claws off of him. Already his body was craving the oxygen that the rawhead denied it, but it didn't stop there.

The more he stared at the rawhead, taking in the matted hair and leathery skin that was pulled too tight in some parts whilst it crinkled up in others, the sharper the pain in his head became. An echo of a memory wavering out of reach just as his vision began wavering also.

_"Dean!"_ his memory called to him, black spots dancing in front of his eyes.

Then it came.

_BANG! BANG! BANG!_

Three shots in quick succession. It wasn't enough to really hurt the rawhead, but they were enough to make the rawhead to release its grip on. Dean fell to the ground as it turned away from him, and he made to scramble for the Taser. More shots echoed around the room, making contact with their target but inflicting no more damage than a fly would, bouncing harmlessly against the chest of a particularly hairy man. If anything, it only served to anger the rawhead.

Dean's fingers wrapped around the Taser and he raised it upward, taking aim. "Hey! Fugly!"

The rawhead turned once more to face him. No more hesitation. No more distractions. Dean pulled the trigger and the probes made their home in the rawhead, the electricity travelling up and along the wires until the rawhead was shaking and juddering, before finally collapsing in a heap on the floor between Dean and the stranger.

Clearing his throat, Dean dropped the Taser, tired but content grin falling into place on his face as he rose his gaze toward the man standing on the other side of the rawhead. With his shaggy brown hair and burrowed brow, there was something about him that had the grin falling from Dean's face, a frown replacing it. The man moved forward, towering above Dean, even when he dropped to his haunches in front of him.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he berated, gripping Dean's chin and tugging it to the side to look over the cuts caused by those damn sharp claws. "Going after a rawhead, alone!"

Dean swatted the hand away and backed up. "Then it's a good thing I had Mighty Moose here to jump in and save the day."

The man closed his mouth and breathed in deeply before letting the breath go again through flared nostrils. "Dean…"

At that, Dean held his hand up, stopping him there. "Do I know you?"

There was a flash of something in the man's eyes, echoed in the lines of his face, but it was gone before Dean could truly register it, and the younger man was swallowing hard and backing up a bit. He took a moment before pushing himself up and holding out a hand to Dean, offering to help him up too.

Dean took it and pulled himself to his feet, but he didn't lose the questioning in his eyes or the tilt of his head, still awaiting an answer.

"Sam," the man said after another moment, firm and strong, "the name's Sam."

"Sam," Dean repeated, tasting the name on his tongue, but even that didn't tell him what he needed to know. "Well, _Sam_, you still haven't answered my question…"

There was a carefulness about the man. About_ Sam_. The way he held himself, straightened himself up and set his jaw line. There was something there but Dean couldn't quite put his finger on it, so when Sam finally spoke, Dean wasn't entirely sure how much of what he said could be trusted.

"I'm a hunter, like you. And hell, you can't exactly be in this game for as long as I have without hearing about the great Dean Winchester." He snorted, a small and slightly sardonic smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "You could say I've spent my whole life looking up to you."

Dean narrowed his eyes, that nagging at the back of his mind never leaving him. "So what brings you all the way out here, Sam?"

"Same as you. Working a job and it led me here."

Bobbing his head, Dean looked Sam up and down before glancing behind him to the abandoned gun on the floorboards beyond the dead creature. "And tell me, _Sammy_? You often hunt rawhead with a 9mm?"

"Silver bullets," Sam answered, almost a little too quickly. "Thought it was a 'shifter I was dealing with. But I see I was wrong."

"Good thing I was here then," Dean grinned, and he moved passed Sam toward the dead rawhead, clapping the younger man on the back as he did so. "Don't suppose you brought marshmallows? Might as well burn this sucker and finish the job properly."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

The pain in Dean's head lingered until he was well on his way back home to that small apartment. Everything else still hurt like a son of a bitch though, and he rubbed at his shoulder once he was parked up in an empty spot along the road down from their building. He caught sight of his face in the rear-view mirror and cursed himself. The other aches and pains he could have played off, but as soon as Abigail saw the slashes on his check and the bruises that would no doubt start blossoming on his neck, she would know he hadn't been out for a few drinks with the guys.

He turned off the engine and looked out across the street, up toward their apartment and the welcoming light in the curtained window there. But even as the warmth washed over him, he felt an odd chill that he could only pin on that man from earlier. Dean had taken the children to safety and by the time he returned to the cabins, Sam had began burning what remained of the rawhead. Better safe than sorry.

_"Thanks for the assist,"_ Dean had said as he made his way back toward his car, keys out ready, even as he glanced back at the man with his hands shoved into his pockets, those eyes of his never leaving Dean. _"Guess I'll catch you around some time, Sammy."_

_"I'm sure you will,"_ had been Sam's response, lips pulled into a tight but sad smile.

He had stayed like that, even as Dean pulled away, and Dean just couldn't shake it from his mind. Of all the things he had expected from that hunt, feeling even more lost than before had not been in the mix. If anything, he was supposed to feel surer of himself. Aside from the obvious 'saving people, hunting things' part, the hunt had been meant as a way to prove himself – to prove he was ready to get back out there. And now he was questioning that.

He dragged himself from the car and back to the apartment, already knowing what would be waiting for him once Abby saw his face. He was right, of course. As soon as she saw the marks, she was berating him, interrogating him and dragging him toward one of the chairs in the kitchen area, forcing him to sit down. She continued to berate him as she dashed away for the first aid kit, and didn't let up once.

"Out with the guys, huh?" she questioned, setting the first aid kit down on the table and opening it up. "What were you thinking? You should have told me before heading out there."

"I had it under control. It was a straightforward hunt."

"That you just happened to stumbled upon?" She soaked a cotton ball and began dabbing at the wound, raising her eyebrow as he hissed and winced against the sting. "Oh hush, you big baby. It's your own fault for going out on your own in the first place."

"Funny thing that…" he said, eyes falling down, "there was another hunter there, hunting the same thing."

She stiffened, hand going still. "Another hunter?"

"Yeah." He lifted his gaze to meet hers. "You ever hear of a hunter named Sam?"

"Sam?" she asked, seeming to swallow around the name. She cleared her throat and shook her head, returning to the task at hand. "Why do you ask?"

"He may have saved my ass."

At that, she thumped his arm. Hard. "Saved your ass? I thought you said you had it under control?"

"Hey!" he complained, rubbing at his arm, all the while trying not to let on about the other injuries she couldn't see.

"You're a reckless asshole, Dean Winchester. You know that?" She pulled away, looking him over whilst shaking her head. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Put yourself in danger. All the time." Dropping into the seat in front of him, the sorrow shone brightly in her eyes. "Remember West Springs? Back in '95? I was fourteen. _Fourteen_, Dean. I never fit in. I mean, you were always so cool. You didn't care what anyone thought. But I was just some dorky kid."

"You were kinda dorky," he teased, nudging her lightly with his knee, "what with the pigtails and all."

She hung her head and looked down at her open palms. "I was no one, Dean. So when Brock Johnson of the football team told me to meet him under the bleachers… that's what I did. I… I tried to push him off." Her voice broke a little but she cleared her throat, and when she looked to him, he could see the tears so clear in her eyes. "I tried, Dean. I tried so hard. But I couldn't. Then you came. You just swooped in from nowhere. Busted his nose up right there and then."

"That's my job, Abby," he answered, "to protect you. And you might still be a dork, but don't you ever think for one moment that you're no one. You don't need some high school jock to define you. You don't need any of those clowns from back then to be who you are. Only you get to choose that."

She smiled sadly, placing her hand on the side of his face in such a way he couldn't help but be reminded of their mom. "Promise me, Dean – no more hunts. Swear to me you won't go out there alone again."

He didn't answer at first, his hesitation causing her to grab his hand and squeeze it gently. "You're a pain in the ass, you know that, right?"

"_Dean…_"

He took a breath and nodded. "I won't go out there alone again, I swear."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.


	4. Broken Crown

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Broken Crown

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Even after watching the man with Dean's face for almost a week, after following him to those cabins and saving him, and after looking him in the eye and facing him head on, Sam had a difficult time saying whether or not it truly was Dean looking back, or if it was something wearing him. How could he not? After all, admitting that the man was his brother, that he truly was Dean Winchester, it would mean Sam was also admitting to the complete lack of recognition in those hazel-green eyes. It would mean that Sam was admitting he had stood in front of Dean and Dean had looked at Sam as if he was a stranger.

It was a different kind of hurt that ached in Sam's chest compared to that time Dean had slowly began to lose his memory, little by little by little, until he couldn't even remember his own name. Fear and anger had taken the forefront of his emotions that time. But now? No, Dean Winchester was very much himself. The cocksure smile, the dangerous and untrusting glint in his eyes, the way he put himself in danger to save an innocent life… He was Dean through and through. The only memories it seemed he was missing were the ones of Sam.

Sam kept his distance after the incident with the rawhead, but he continued to watch and dig. Dean was Dean, but the girl? Sam knew that was where the answers were. If only he could find them. Abigail Jacobs – that was the name she was going by. It was the name registered on the car and on the apartment lease. The only problem was that he could find no other mention of her anywhere. There were plenty of Abigail Jacobs' throughout the US, but none matched her description. None matched the fake ID she had used when buying the car or leasing the apartment.

So Sam waited and watched.

He parked a little down the way from the apartment, keeping an eye on it until both Abigail and Dean had left. It was only when he was certain that both were well on their way that Sam pulled himself from his car and headed into the building. He had found out their apartment number the same time he had pulled up their lease, and he climbed the stairs to the second floor, making his way toward the small wooden door at the end of the hall.

After a quick glance around to make sure he was alone he pulled the lock pick from his jacket and got to work. He was inside in no time, and tucking the lock pick away again, closing the door gently behind him. It hit him almost immediately as he lifted his head and took in the apartment ahead of him. It was so ordinary. Normal. There were no newspaper clipping lining the walls, no random books of lore spread open on any and all available surfaces. Any guns were well hidden, ammo too. A TV magazine sat on the table in front of the three piece, remote control propping it open on the page it was on.

He felt his chest tighten more and more at each little detail. It didn't look like a hunter's den, like a place that was merely being lived out of but not in. It looked almost like the bunker had begun to look the more time they spent there, but it was more than that. It looked like the home Dean had made with Lisa and Ben. And there it was. Home.

He pushed further into the apartment, opening drawers as he went and looking over bits and pieces of paperwork. Nothing stood out at first. Nothing gave him pause, until he finally reached what looked like the room Abigail must have been staying in. It was in her bedside cabinet that he found the answer to his first question – whether or not she was an innocent bystander in all of this, or if she was involved.

It was nothing remarkable, just an old phone that had been turned off. But Sam picked it up and switched it on, moving about the room as he waited for it to load. He was about the pull open the wardrobe doors when he felt the phone buzz in his hand, followed by a series of beeps and more vibrations. The screen lit up with message after message, a voicemail symbol flashing continuously at the top of the screen.

The same number flashed up over and over and over again. Each message almost the same as the last.

_Cas, call me._

_Where are you, Cas?_

_Call me!_

_Cas… please. Call me._

Sam took a breath and hit the dial button for the voicemail, closing his eyes almost immediately as the messages began playing. There was no mistaking his brother's voice, no mistaking the frustration and anger and worry that lay beneath each message.

_"Damn it, Cas. Where are you, man?... Cas, it's me… call me. Please."_

Each and every message was from Dean, all from a number Sam didn't recognise. He copied it over to his own phone regardless, knowing that if nothing else, he might be able to track it if the pair disappeared again. As for the phone in his hand, it took him no time to figure out the voicemail was a recording of Castiel's own greeting – the only question was how the mysterious girl had gotten hold of it in the first place.

Anger boiled just below his surface and his tightened his grip on the phone a moment before slipping it into his pocket instead of back into the bedside cabinet. Questions ran wild around his mind, one after the other, thoughts colliding with one another as he tried to make sense of what he knew so far. He gripped the handles of the double-doored wardrobe and tugged them open a little harder than necessary, continuing on in his search.

He looked in at the shirts and jackets lining the rail of the wardrobe. None stood out to him, but he searched the pockets of each, finding nothing but a receipt for the gas station in town and a broken button. Neither of which told him anything he needed to know. He was about to close the doors again when he spotted a tiny slice of Narnia in the form of a box, hidden behind the normality of everything else.

It was just a small cardboard shoebox. Brown and tattered. He pulled it toward himself and closed his eyes as his fingers toyed with the edge of the lid. "Please don't be shoes. Please don't be shoes."

He took a breath and swallowed hard, lifting the lid. It was another moment before he dared to peel his eyes open, looking down at the contents of the box and taking it in. From there, he couldn't help the small breath that slipped out or the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Jackpot."

It was a typical box of tricks, from the empty hex bags to the skull of what looked like a small animal. He reached inside, examining each item as he went, the most prominent being the dried and pressed flowers carefully tied together at the stems with string. Forget-me-nots. He had done enough research through the years to recognise the flower, the sight of it causing his stomach to twist into knots. But it was the photos at the bottom of the box that really got him going. Photos of himself and Dean, all looking as if they had been taken from a distance, and in each one, Sam's face had been scratched out until all that remained was a mere shadow of a person.

So it was a memory spell of sorts.

He was about to continue his search when he heard the front door, it made him still, listening out as a female voice floated through the air.

"Dean?" the voice called, confusion colouring the words, but it was void of suspicion as Sam heard her continue on her way. "You're home early. Jimmy let you off for good behaviour?"

Her light laughter danced in the empty air, and if Sam didn't know the truth, if he hadn't seen the box, he would have thought she was just another girl, happy and normal in life. He edged toward the doorway, photos in one hand as his other reached behind his back for his gun. Continuing to listen, he waited at the doorway until he was content that she was busy in the kitchen area of the open apartment, and he moved out into the hallway, making his way down it as she opened cupboards and began putting things away.

"I'm making spaghetti for dinner," she called, straightening up and closing a cupboard door with her foot as she moved back toward the bags on the table, her back to Sam the whole time.

He took a breath and moved out, taking aim. "Don't move."

Immediately she went still and stiff, and Sam continued to edge forward until he was only a few feet away. "If you want money, we don't have much…"

"I don't want your money."

"Then wha-" she began to say, but she was silenced as Sam threw the photos down on the table next to her.

"I want my brother."

She looked down at the photos, then turned around slowly until she was facing Sam fully, her eyes wide and body rigid. It was in that moment, standing so close to her for the first time, that Sam realised he had seen her before, and not just on the CCTV.

"I know you," he said with a frown, looking her up and down, trying to place her. Then it clicked. The vampires back in Oregon. "You were there… You're that reporter. Abigail Brooks."

"No," she said, shaking her head, but it wasn't in denial of what he said. It was something else that settled in her eyes. "You can't be here. You have to go."

"I'm not leaving here without my brother." He took a step forward. "So here's what's going to happen, you're going to break whatever spell you've put on my brother, right now, and I might think about letting you live."

"I can't…" She shook her head and breathed in deep, her still wide gaze falling to the photos before returning to meet his eyes.

"Can't, or won't?" Sam asked, adjusting his aim.

"You don't understand. This spell… I don't know how to break it. I wouldn't even know where to start." She held her hands up as Sam cocked the gun. "I'm not a witch. I bought the spell years ago. I never intended to use it, but then… Please."

"You bought it?" He lowered the gun a little, regarding her. "Tell me, what price does a spell go for these days? One human soul?"

"She didn't want my soul."

"Then what?"

"My blood. A vial of my blood."

"Your blood? Why would a witch…" Sam questioned, but when she raised an eyebrow at him, he began to understand without her clarifying and his words trailed away.

"Apparently it's a handy ingredient to keep around."

He chewed at his lip a moment and let go of a breath in frustration. "And this witch? She have a name? A phone number? _Anything_?"

Abigail shook her head.

"Then I do this the old fashioned way. I tell Dean the truth and you help me, because it seems he trusts you right now, and then I call in someone who can help break the spell." He was already pulling his phone from his pocket, one name coming to mind – Rowena.

"You can't…" She sounded so broken, going so far as to push his hand down before he could dial the number. She looked up to him, her eyes pleading. "The mind is a fragile thing. You don't know what it will do to him. As far as Dean is aware, he got hurt during our last hunt and that's why he's having trouble with his memory. If he learns the truth – you could break his mind completely. Are you really willing to risk that?"

"He's my brother." But even as the words left his mouth, he knew she had him. He knew himself how overpowering memories could be. Hell, he had been through that torment himself. After losing his soul and then getting it back, after having the wall in his mind broken open – he knew exactly what that kind of torture could do to a man. He couldn't abandon Dean, he wouldn't walk away, but he couldn't play it foolishly either.

Before either could say anything further though, the door clicked open and Sam noted that as he slipped his gun away, out of sight, Abigail did the same with the photographs still on the table, slipping them into her back pocket and straightening to look toward the entrance of the apartment.

"Hey, Abby, I'm ho-" Dean started, but his words faded as he pulled himself fully into the apartment and looked out at both Sam and Abigail, confusion settling on his brow.

"Dean…" Abigail breathed out, and Sam knew she was searching for the same recognition in Dean's eyes that he was. She was waiting to see if there was a spark of a memory anywhere in his face.

"You," was all Dean said, pointing at Sam, before looking to Abigail with narrowed eyes. The hand he pointed at Sam splayed out, resting in mid air as if stroking it gently, his brow burrowed. "You okay, little sister?"

"Little-" Sam began to repeat, but cut himself off as he looked toward Abigail and took in a breath as he did so. The words were so familiar, the tone a perfect replica of the one Sam had heard time and time again, aimed toward him. But none of that concern was sent his way. So that was why Dean trusted her? He cleared his throat, sliding his gun into the waistband of his jeans as he did so, and offered up a smile. "Yeah, we're fine. Aren't we, _Abby_?"

She dug her hands into the front pockets of her jeans, her own smile tight. "It's okay, Dean. Sam is an old friend…"

Dean lowered his hands to his side but he didn't lose any of the suspicion in his eyes as he continued forward until he was close enough that Sam could see the still fresh scars on his cheek and fading bruises on his neck from the rawhead, as well as the older scar on his forehead. "An old friend? Who just so happened to show up at a hunt the other day with the wrong weapon, and who is now inside the apartment we're renting? Forgive me if I don't rush to embrace you in a 'friendly' hug."

At that, Sam reached for his gun once more, careful in his movements, keeping them very deliberate – calm and steady, to show he was not a threat. He released the magazine and tossed it toward Dean, who caught it easily. "Silver bullets remember? You and _Abby_ went dark. I came looking. I had to be sure you were you."

Dean looked the magazine and the bullets over, and though the tension didn't completely disappear from his shoulders, it did lessen. "It wasn't the rawhead you were hunting. It was me."

Sam held his hand out for the magazine and reloaded it once Dean passed it back. "Like I say, I had to be sure. I had to know if you were… _you_."

"And?"

"Abby filled me in," Sam continued, slipping the gun away once more. "Said you've been having issues remembering. So I offered to stick around and help, until it all comes back to you."

Dean rubbed at the bridge of his nose and snorted. "Well, that's awfully kind of you, Sam, but we've got this…" His eyes closed tightly and he took in a breath. Sam recognised the look immediately – he had seen it plenty of times. Dean, in pain. "We're fine."

"You don't look fine."

The words barely left Sam's mouth when Dean faltered, stumbling forward a step. Sam made to push toward him, but Abigail was there first, her hands on Dean's arms, steadying him as her widened eyes found Sam.

"You need to leave," she said, her words pleading but firm.

"I'm not leaving him…"

She was already leading Dean toward the three piece, forcing him to sit down before he fell down. "You want to help him, then leave."

Jaw set firm, Sam stood his ground, but the longer he stood there and the longer he watched, the more he knew that she was right. That little spell of hers, it gripped Dean so tightly that just the sight of Sam was enough to cause him pain. He watched as she pushed up from in front of Dean and marched toward the front door, riving it open as she continued to glare at Sam.

"Leave."

Sam hated it. He hated the way his heart ached in his chest because as much as he wanted to stay, his mind told him it would only make things worse. If he wanted Dean back, he had to play it smart. He let go of a snort of breath and moved forward, making sure to grip Abigail tightly by the arm on his way out, lowering his voice to a whisper only she would hear as he leaned in close to her. "This isn't over. I'm coming back for my brother and _nothing_ is going to stand in my way."

He wasn't going to lose Dean, not again. Not when he was so close.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

_"Dean!" that familiar voice called out to him, sounding far away and yet directly in front of him all at once. He blinked his eyes and knew immediately he was dreaming again. He was back in that corridor, the dark and dreary one that had haunted him for several weeks now. _

_One hand clasped against the wound on his neck, his other still gripped the machete tight, refusing to let go even as he leaned against the wall, feeling himself fading. _

_"Dean," the voice spoke again, closer this time, and Dean could make out the man hovering in front of him. Before the features had been blurred, but the longer he looked, the more they began to take shape. The brow burrowed with worry, eyes taking on a teary sheen as the man's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. "You with me?"_

_"Go," Dean ordered, as he had done before, pointing down the corridor with his machete as he closed his eyes. "I'm fine. Go, get the kid!"_

_"Dean," the man insisted, refusing to let go, "I'm not leaving you."_

_"I'm fine, Sam! Now go, before I kick your ass myself."_

_There was a long moment of hesitation before the man, before Sam, relented and pushed away with a 'I'll be back' before sprinting off. Dean allowed himself to slide down the wall, eyes still closed as he focused on staying conscious. It wasn't long before he heard footsteps again and he frowned at the sound. Had he lost time? Was Sam back so soon?_

_"What do we have here?" _

_His eyes shot open at the voice, scratchy and worn, like an old record. The owner of the voice dropped to his haunches in front of Dean, smile lighting up his face in a dangerous way, tongue sweeping over his lips before fangs descended and the vamp shot forward._

"Sam!"

The name tumbled from his lips as he sat upright, waking from the dream, sweat rolling over him, heart thudding once more in his tightened chest. It took him a moment to adjust to his surroundings, the cold corridor disappearing to be replaced by the open plan of the apartment. He laid back again for a moment, resting his arm over his eyes, blocking out as much light as he could as he breathed through the pain and heaviness that clung to him, like a bad hangover. But he hadn't been drinking. He hadn't had a single drop the entire day before.

The last thing he remembered was coming home from work and seeing that guy, Sam, in the apartment. From there, everything had gone fuzzy. His head had starting pounding, his vision wavering, and he remembered Abby guiding him to the sofa he was currently still lying on. He must have fallen asleep… but he didn't remember. But hey? Nothing new there. He wasn't remembering a lot of things lately.

Pushing up, he grimaced at the nausea and swung his legs off the sofa until he was sitting instead of lying. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. After another moment, he felt something tickling at his lip and swept the back of his hand under his nose, pulling it away to see blood.

"Great," he groaned. One more thing to add to the list.

What the hell was going on with him?

He swiped the remaining blood away and cast a bleary glance around the room in search of Abigail, finding her curled up asleep in the nearby armchair. Good. He didn't want her seeing the blood and worrying even more. There was something going on with her and that Sam guy, and the last thing Dean needed was her fussing over him because of a damn nosebleed. So he moved quietly, grabbing the blanket she must have draped over him and placing it over her instead.

A quick shower and a strong coffee later and he was beginning to feel like himself again, the remains of the dream a mere shadow disappearing more and more as daylight crept in. The headache was lessening too, and by the time Abby was stirring, it was all but gone. He grinned at her from the kitchen table as she woke, looking about the room for him.

"Morning, Sunshine," he beamed, raising his second mug of coffee in salute to her and earning himself a yawn in return.

"What time is it?" she asked, brushing a hand through her hair in a failed attempt to tame the frizz and curls.

Dean glanced to the clock on the wall. "A little after seven."

"Seven?" She pulled the blanket around her shoulders and padded over to the table, dropping down into the chair opposite him, a frown tugging at her lips. "How long have you been awake?"

Dean shrugged, dismissing the question and pushing up to move toward the coffee pot instead, in order to distract both himself and Abby. "Coffee?"

She shook her head, watching him with such careful eyes. A silence fell between them as Dean filled his own cup, though in truth it was already half full. It was a heavy kind of silence, filled with things not said, with opened mouths that immediately closed again without having said a word. He kept his back to her a moment, waiting for the inevitable questioning of his wellbeing.

It never came. Instead, what did come caught him off guard.

"We need to leave," Abby said finally, the words tight with a hint of impatience and urgency. "Today… We need to leave town."

He frowned and turned to look her over, her own eyes focused on the empty table before her. "Hey now… hold up. Leave? I thought you liked it here."

She shook her head, biting at her lip, her words stringing quickly together. "You don't understand, we can't stay here anymore. We… We have to leave."

"Easy there, Tiger. Slow it down." Dean lowered himself back into his chair, bobbing his head to the side in order to catch her gaze and hold it. "Abby – _Abigail_. What's going on?"

Her eyes locked with his, but she said nothing.

"Talk to me."

"Sam…" she breathed out, but then she stopped herself, tongue darting out to dampen her lips. She opened her mouth to say something further but then closed it again immediately.

"He was there, wasn't he?" Dean asked. "On our last hunt."

She leaned forward. "He's bad news, Dean. You're in danger whenever he's around. If it's between him and you getting hurt, it's always..." She paused, taking a momentary breath. "Dean, I can't lose you. I can't…"

Reaching out, he gripped her hand, the touch seeming to both shock her and calm her at the same time, her shoulders relaxing, some of the tension disappearing. "I'm not leaving you, Abby. You can't lose me that easy."

"But…"

He shook his head, cutting her off. "If you wanna skip town, then that's what we'll do. I'll head out to Jimmy's, get my last paycheck and we'll go. We'll leave."

The relief on her face was clear, and nothing else needed saying, aside from a little planning. He packed up what little he had in his room and dumped the bag on the three piece whilst Abby packed up her own gear. Judging by the clock, if he walked to the garage as he usually did, taking his time and letting the fresh air clear his head a little, he would get there for Jimmy opening up, and providing everything went smoothly, they'd be on their way by lunch.

That wasn't asking much, surely?

Still, it didn't stop the dread from settling in the pit of his stomach. The dread that weighed heavier and heavier with each step Dean took away from that apartment, until he reached the corner and it felt like he was treading water. He paused at the crosswalk, mind half on Abby and the apartment and half on the street ahead - half on the eyes across the way watching him. A familiar shadow that made his mind spin like a record, going round and round and round, until the jostle of the crowd alerted him to the green light – the shadow and the eyes gone, lost in the mass of people.

He tried to convince himself it was the leftover dregs of the dream, dripping over into reality, the same way he tried to convince himself he was fine. But the small voice at the back of his mind mocked him and taunted him, because it knew the truth. It had lived with his denial for years. It drank it in like fine liquor and spewed it back out as something twisted and murky. So often it whispered doubts and lies, like a demon would, but sometimes… just sometimes, it told the truth.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.


	5. Cry Little Sister

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Cry Little Sister

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Sam barely slept. Even if he had wanted to, his mind would not switch off. He spent part of the night researching memory spells and the rest looking up Abigail Brooks and finding several articles online under her name. They traced back a decade or so, first appearing in newspapers like Weekly World News, each one small and sparse, giving way to larger articles about such things as alien abductions and others with headlines like 'I gave birth to Dracula's baby'.

Still, he continued to dig until he uncovered more of her stories, posted on a blog with a few followers. There the articles were longer, more in depth. They were colourful and full of details, not cut short due to space issues. Sam would have dismissed them as more Ghostfacers style junk, but as he skimmed through them, he found himself drawn in by the little things, the details most civilians missed or overlooked.

Vampires. Wendigos. Shapeshifters.

Blackwater Ridge. Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Sioux City, Iowa.

All places the brothers had been on hunts that sounded very much like what she described in her articles. The list went on and on, and whilst there were towns and cities mentioned that Sam knew they had never been to, he also knew never to overlook a coincidence when he saw one.

"Who are you?" he questioned, staring at the photo of Abigail he had pulled up on the laptop screen in front of him. It was from a driver's licence he had found from West Springs. Abigail Brooks. Born May 21st 1981.

Beside him, his phone buzzed and began to ring, the caller ID flashing up. Rowena. It was about time. He had called the witch as soon as he had left Dean the night before, but it had gone straight to voicemail. After several more attempts and several messages, he had given up for the night.

"Rowena," Sam greeted, switching the tab on his web browser as he did so, going back to one of the pages he had pulled up on memory spells. "Sold any spells recently?"

"Pardon?" was Rowena's indignant reply. "No social niceties? No, '_Hello, Rowena, how are you?' 'I'm good, thanks, and your fine self?' 'Well, I'm just grand-'_"

"Rowena," Sam drew out, cutting over her words, his tone low and reprimanding.

"You're no fun, Samuel." She huffed out. "And I will have you know that I am not in the business of selling spells. Trading knowledge, ingredients, that's what we _reputable_ witches do. I don't sell magic like some common street vendor on the corner with a hotdog stand."

"Do you know anyone who might?"

"In exchange for what? Money?" She let go of a light laugh, but it held little humour. "There are far easier ways to accumulate wealth, my boy. Not to mention more… fun."

"What about for the blood of a virgin?"

"Oh…" She paused a moment. "Well, in that case, it is possible. There are those who would make such a deal. After all, there is always a market for such an item."

"A market?" Sam questioned, eyebrows raised as he let go of a disbelieving snort. "For virgin blood? Why?"

"It can be a very precious ingredient. There are certain spells that a very specific. I mean, you could try and cheat or, heaven forbid, _steal_ it, but virgin blood willingly given would hold more power in a spell than some cheap knock off blessed blood stolen from the local morgue."

"Okay, I get it…" Sam waved his hand, even though he knew she couldn't see, and sat back in his seat, returning his attention to the laptop in front of him. "Do you know anyone who might have made such a deal? Say, for a memory spell?"

"Off hand? I couldn't say. I'm not exactly held in high favour amongst my own kind after certain… events." She paused, and Sam imagined her to be frowning. "Why? What have you boys gotten yourselves into now?"

"I need to know what spell was used so I can break it."

"And might I ask?" she continued. "Where is _Dean_ in all of this?"

He said nothing, which in truth – said everything that it needed to.

"Oh," she answered. "Just how bad are we talking? Full on memory wipe? Or does our boy think he's a loveable mutt of some kind?"

"I saw her box of tricks and in it there were photos of me and Dean and…"

"Only you were scratched out?"

Sam leaned forward, nodding his head."Yes. Exactly. You've heard of it?"

"Oh yes. A cuckoo spell of sorts."

"I'm sorry, a what?"

"Cuckoo spell, my boy," Rowena repeated, her voice deepening, taking on a darker undertone. "You are familiar with the bird I presume? They lay their eggs in another bird's nest and push the other eggs _out_. But rather than eggs, the spell would push out memories. If done correctly, you could essentially rewrite a person's entire life."

"And what happens to the original memories? To whoever gets 'pushed out'?"

"I suppose they get locked up, behind a dam of sorts."

"So to break the spell, all you'd have to do is break the dam?"

She laughed, but once more, it was a dark laugh. "You make it sound so simple. My dear boy, tell me – what would happen if you broke open a dam already bursting under pressure?"

"The water would break free."

"And it would drown _everything _in its path. The results could be catastrophic."

"So what are you saying, Rowena?" He breathed in deep, feeling his chest tighten as he remembered the look in Dean's eyes, as he remembered the pain lining his face, the way he stumbled. "Are you saying I should just give up? Walk away?"

"Walk away? From Dean? As if you could." She scoffed. "I'm just saying, be careful. The mind is a delicate thing and one that has already gone through the torment that Dean's has… well, you have to expect consequences."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

It wasn't that Jimmy had been reluctant to pay Dean, but he had tried to talk Dean out of skipping town. He had even suggested he come back and work for him once the 'family emergency' had blown over. Dean humoured him, offering him maybes and vague answers, but he already knew this would be the last they would see of that town. He knew it was for the best. Until they had the bunker, it was what they did – moving around, time after time, going wherever the job took them. Still… he couldn't help the pang in his chest as he thought about the normality he had lived through over the past few weeks.

But he knew, in his heart and in his mind, that wasn't who he was. He could never switch it off. Hunting, it was as much a part of him as the blood running through his veins. Normal? That was for other people – for Jimmy and Tommy, for the people in line at the bakery he called in on the way back, for the strangers in the street oblivious to all the things that went bump in the night.

He adjusted the bag and coffees in his had to open the door to the apartment building, slipping in and making his way up the stairs. He was so lost in his ponderings that he didn't see the first few signs of trouble – the scuff marks on the walls or the drops of blood on the floor, at least not until he saw the door to the apartment sitting ajar.

That was when he paused, his gaze trailing along the path he had just walked, taking in each little detail. His steps turned more deliberate, his movements becoming cautious. Slowly, he put the coffee and bag of goods down, his instincts taking over – determined to remain as silent as possible. Reaching behind his back, he cursed under his breath at the absence of his gun but moved forward despite it.

He pushed the apartment door open the rest of the way, taking in the upset contents inside. The overturned chairs in the kitchen area, the papers strewn about the floor amongst the shards of a broken mug and puddle of coffee, the cutlery drawer sticking out half open as the largest of the knives that had once resided there was dug into the surface of the wooden table.

"Abby?" he called, tentative, unsure, and when there was no reply, not even the shuffling of feet or creaking of floorboards, he called again – louder, the name catching in his throat like barbed wire. "Abby?!"

Panic flitted just beneath the surface, barely controlled. Footsteps quickening, he tore through the apartment, searching for any sign of Abigail or whatever intruders had caused such a mess. There was nothing. No one. Abby was gone but it seemed not of her own free will. Her things still in her room, half packed – her keys to the car and apartment still sitting on her dresser. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialled Abby's number, pressing the phone to his ear as it rang and rang and rang before cutting to voicemail.

He tried again, urgency flooding through him, as he made his way back toward the kitchen area and the knife embedded in the table. He went to pull it free but the sight of blood on the handle and blade made him pause. Someone was hurt, he just hoped it was the intruder and not Abby.

Voicemail, again, and he cursed, turning away from the bloody knife and focusing on the rest of the scene instead. He pulled the phone away from his ear and scrolled down until he reached Castiel's number. A brief moment of hesitation, then he hit dial, slightly taken aback that the phone had actually decided to start ringing this time rather than heading straight to voicemail as it usually did. That said, he still didn't expect an answer – not with the angel disappearing off the face of the planet for the past few weeks.

He was still listening to the ringing when something on the floor caught his attention. At first he thought it was just another piece of the broken mug, but as he bent down to pick it up, he found himself taking a breath. A vampire fang.

At the same time that the thought registered with him, his mind flashing back to his dreams – to that corridor and those half memories – the phone in his hand clicked and a familiar voice answered, but not the voice he expected.

"Hello," the voice answered, distracted, the one simple word suggesting he hadn't been paying attention when answering the phone.

"Sam?" Dean questioned, straightening up. His body went rigid, tension spreading out. "What are you doing with Cas' phone?"

"Dean?" There was a shuffling of paper, and Dean could imagine the younger man straightening up and swallowing hard. "I er… We – we should talk."

Hand clenching into a fist around the fang, Dean's eyes found the bloody knife once more, anger bubbling up inside of him as he nodded his head. "Yeah, I think we do."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

When the knocking came on his motel room door, Sam expected it. He had been waiting for it. What he didn't expect were the rough hands that grabbed the collar of his shirt and slammed him up against the nearest wall as soon as he opened the door. Fearsome hazel-green eyes stared straight into him, a snarl settling on his brother's lips, anger lining Dean's face and tightening his grip.

"Where is she?" Dean demanded, the words a growl that started somewhere in his gut and ended vibrating dangerously in the air between them.

"Woah, Dean!" Sam answered, looking down at his brother with a burrowed brow. He didn't attempt to fight back, he knew better than that. "What are you-"

"Abby," Dean growled out, interrupting him, "where is she?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Tone calming, placating, Sam held his hands up. "Dean… please…"

Dean let go and took a step back, one hand going up to rub at his brow, eyes closing a moment. "I went out for an hour, maybe two – tops. And when I got back, she was gone. But not just gone. Taken."

"Taken?" Sam questioned, moving away from the wall and toward the table with his laptop on. The movement earned him a glare, or maybe it was the lack of concern in his voice.

"Yeah, taken. And I found _this_." Digging into his pocket, Dean pulled out a small plastic bag, thrusting it toward Sam with one hand as the other began to reach into his jacket.

Sam took the bag, his gaze falling down to study it. "This is a-"

"Vampire fang," Dean finished for him, and when Sam looked up, he saw Dean had pulled a machete free. "From what I understand, our last hunt involved vampires and _you_ were there. Now you show up, out of nowhere, and Abby's gone missing, and I find _that_." He pointed toward the bag with his machete, his gaze hard.

"What are you suggesting, Dean?"

"Teeth," was all Dean said in return.

Sam's jaw went rigid and he turned is head to the side, meeting Dean's glare with a silent stare of his own.

"Show me your teeth," Dean reiterated, taking a step forward and raising the machete as he did so.

Letting go of a breath, Sam shook his head, but raised lips enough to show Dean that he was fang free. "Happy?"

But the fire in Dean's eyes didn't lessen, nor did his grip on the machete. "How do I know you aren't working with them?"

"Dean…" Sam breathed out, feeling the name catch in his throat. "Look at me." He held his hands out the sides, splaying them out. "You know me, Dean. Deep down inside, you know me…"

"Know you?" Dean shook his head. "I don't know the first thing about you, buddy. What I do know is that you're hiding something. I mean, Cas' phone, man? Seriously? You still haven't explained that one to me."

Sam swallowed hard, shuffling from one foot to the other, his gaze falling on the still open laptop and a page he had been reading on memory loss. There were so many complications, even in the normal everyday cases where magic and false memories weren't involved. Hell, he could already see the pain written across Dean's face. He could already see that it was the anger keeping Dean going, keeping him standing as he faced off against Sam.

"You want the truth?"

"I swear to God, if you start spouting A Few Good Men-"

"It's not his phone," Sam interrupted. "It never was. It's not even his number."

"What are you talking about?"

"I found it, in Abby's room. She's been playing you, Dean. Cas, the real Cas, he's back in Kansas and she planted that phone, that number, because she knew she couldn't erase everyone from your life. She had to give you something to hang onto."

Dean shook his head, taking a step back and bringing the palm of his hand up to press against his temple.

"She's not your sister."

"No. Whatever game you're playing, it isn't going to work." He probably would have said something further, but his phone beeped in his pocket and when he pulled it free, Sam could tell whatever the message was, it wasn't good. "I have to… I need to…"

He made to turn away, and Sam took a step forward, gripping his arm in an attempt to stop him. It earned him a fist to the face in reply and he stumbled back a step, rubbing at his jaw as he looked back up toward a Dean whose face was a collision of mixed emotions. Confusion, anger, panic, pain.

"Stay away from us," he said, looking more and more lost the longer he stood there, and Sam couldn't help but notice the way Dean couldn't look him in the eye. "Stay… away."

"Dean!" Sam called after him, but Dean was out the door, refusing to look back the whole time. "Dean, wait!"

By the time Sam reached the doorway, the beat up car Dean had climbed in was peeling away from the motel parking lot. He swore under his breath and turned back into the room only long enough to gather what he needed before heading out toward his own borrowed car.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Grey clouds massed overhead, turning the afternoon dark and gloomy. The first few spots of rain began to form on the windscreen and Dean switched the wipers on, only half paying attention as the spots got larger and larger and the wipers got faster and faster. His mind was elsewhere. It was on the niggle at the back of mind, the scratches in his memory that fell away every time he tried to reach out for them. But mostly, his mind was on that text he had gotten back in the motel room.

It didn't say much. An address and a threat. Be there in an hour or the girl dies.

What was he supposed to do? They had his sister, whoever _they_ were. He cursed under his breath. He had no way of knowing what he was walking into, no way of knowing how many of them there were, and even what they wanted. But his gut told him it was related to their last hunt – the one he kept reliving in his dreams, which meant that at least he knew _what_ he was dealing with.

Vampires.

_"Vampires? I thought there was no such thing."_

_"You never even mentioned them, Dad."_

The words buzzed around Dean's head, the memory a distant echo that brought a sharp edge of pain with it. It sliced through his temple, his right hand shooting up to press against it on instinct. The sudden intensity caught him off guard so much he didn't realise he was drifting over to the other side of the road until the car horn from the oncoming traffic blared at him, breaking through the burning pain and bringing him back to the road.

He swerved, narrowly missing the other car, and slammed on his brakes, coming to a stop at the side of the road, engine cutting out. He stayed liked that for a moment, hands still clutching the steering wheel tightly, heart thudding in his chest as he tried to even his breathing out, gain some control back. It took a moment for the fog to clear from his mind, but once it did, he swallowed hard and looked down at the wheel, making the motions to start up the beat up old Ford again.

Of course, the damn piece of junk made the noises but refused to turn over.

"Son of a bitch."

Jaw tightening, he tried again, and again, before hitting the steering wheel with the palm of his hand, frustration building up.

"God dammit!"

He closed his eyes and breathed in deep, moving to turn the key once more.

"Come on, come on… come on."

The engine refused to listen and he was just preparing himself for going under the hood when a light rap at his window drew his attention to the man that stood there, out in the pouring rain. He cursed at the sight of Sam and rolled the window down, eyebrow going up as he looked the younger man over.

"I thought I told you to stay away."

"I can help."

"Oh really?" Dean answered, trying the key once more, not wishing to accept help from someone that screamed 'bad news'. "I think you've helped enough."

"That message you got – it was them wasn't it? The vamps from Oregon?" Forearm resting against the roof of the car, Sam leaned forward and down, meeting and holding Dean's gaze, refusing to look away.

"How do you know that?"

"The fang," Sam answered. "And it makes sense. Vampires have a hell of a sense of smell and if even one of them got away, they could have tracked us here."

"Or you could have led them here."

Dean made to open the door but Sam pushed it shut again, his jaw set as he stared down at the affronted glare he earned from Dean in return.

"I'm not the bad guy, Dean." He breathed out through flared nostrils and shook his head. "If you don't believe me, fine, but I'm not letting you walk into a trap by yourself."

He took a step back, allowing Dean to open the door and climb out, and Dean did so, careful but still very suspicious. "Okay, say I trust you. Say I let you come along and accept your help. How do I know you won't double-cross me the second you have a chance to?"

"You don't," the younger man answered, curt and simple. "But you need me."

"Oh yeah? And why's that?"

"For starters… My car is still running."

And Dean couldn't really argue with that.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

The ride to the address from the message was silent, filled with furtive glances and plenty of throats clearing. When they arrived, Dean looked out the window and up to what looked like an abandoned building undergoing renovations. Scaffolding, tarp, empty windows that should have held glass. This was the place. There were no workers about. No people at all. It was isolated enough to be the perfect place to cause a commotion without drawing attention.

Dean half wondered how long the vampires had been hold up there for before making their move. How long had they been watching for?

He let go of a breath and made to climb out of the car, but Sam gripped his upper arm, stopping him.

"What's the plan?" Sam questioned, refusing to lessen his grip, even as Dean stared down at his hand with a raised eyebrow before looking back up to his face.

"Don't die," Dean answered automatically, the words flowing from his mouth as an old shadow of a memory flitted across his vision before disappearing again. He tugged his arm free and pulled himself from the car.

Sam was quick to follow, rounding the car and coming to meet his step before Dean could even pull his machete free from its sheath. Dean offered the taller man a side glance, taking note of the way his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat and the way his brow burrowed as if there was something worrying him. Suspicion tightened Dean's chest once more, but there was another part of him that couldn't help but soften a little at the sight of the man – a part of him that wanted to comfort him and tell him it would be fine. They'd gotten by a thousand times before, and they would do the same this time too.

But Dean couldn't remember the thousand times before. He couldn't remember the vampires from Oregon or what went down on that hunt. All he knew were the flashes from his nightmares and what Abigail had told him – which, in truth, wasn't a whole lot.

"Right," Dean said, clearing his throat and pushing onward, "let's do this."

The building was as silent inside as it looked from the outside. Their footsteps echoed in the empty expanse of nothingness and at first, the only response was the rustling of tarp from the wind and rain. It was only when they began to approach the stairwell that Dean heard the shuffle of feet from behind him, followed by a small and very familiar gasp.

Dean spun on the spot, machete at the ready, but he stilled before he could do any harm. Three vampires had emerged, blocking them from their exit as they edged forward, hunger clear in their eyes. But they weren't the ones Dean was paying attention to. No, his eyes were on the shadows that shifted behind the three vampires. He swung the machete lazily in his grasp before adjusting his stance and putting on a dangerous smile, very much aware of Sam beside him and the way he readied himself also.

"You gonna hide there all day and let your lackeys do the work?" Dean taunted, "Or are you going to come out and fight like a good blood sucking parasite?"

"I do wonder," the vamp from the shadows drawled, voice worn and old, sounding very much like nails upon a chalkboard, "if your blood tastes as good as it smelled. If it tastes as good as your little… _friend's."_

The voice had Dean's mind spinning immediately, sending him back into his nightmares. For a moment, in his mind he was on the ground again in that dark corridor, back pressed up against the wall and hand pressed up against the wound on his neck, as the vamp that now emerged from the shadows had come to settle in front of him, taking advantage of his weakness. This time though, it was a difference weakness he was taking advantage of – one he was keeping very close to his chest, one hand wrapped around Abby's neck as he held her tightly.

"I swear to god, if you hurt her-"

"You'll what? Kill my nest? Like you tried to do before?" The vampire tightened his grip on Abby's throat and she closed her eyes tight. "The infamous Winchesters. No, this time I'm going to teach you a lesson. I'm going to teach you that when you start a fight, you should finish it – before it finishes you."

He opened his mouth, fangs visibly descending and Dean stepped forward immediately, holding up his hands but not giving up the machete just yet.

"No! No – wait. Stop. You've got me, let her go."

"Dean!" Sam hissed behind him, full of warning, but Dean wasn't listening to reason right now.

"Please…"

The vampire smiled and tilted his head to the side, revealing a scar halfway across his neck that must have come from a particularly nasty wound not to have healed. "You killed my family, why shouldn't I kill yours?"

Behind him, he heard a sudden movement from Sam and turned away to see the younger hunter struggling with another vampire that had blindsided them both. He made to step forward to help, but the three behind him had other plans. They took advantage of the distraction and moved at once. One gripped him tightly by the arms and dragged him backward as the other two circled in front of him. He waited until they were close enough before making his move and pushing back against the vampire holding him, kicking out at the two in front to gain more momentum.

The motion sent him falling backward, landing on top of the vampire behind as they both collided with the floor. He quickly rolled off and brought his machete down hard across the vamp's neck before they could recover. But they others were on top of him again before he could drag himself up. One kicked him hard, sending him down onto his back once more, but before the other could follow through on his move, he was losing his head to Sam's blade.

Dean stole a glance toward the lead vampire and Abigail, taking note of the anger resting on the vampire's face. Abby met his eyes, the fear in her own shining bright, but something seemed to ignite beneath it, her body going slack a moment before seeming to straighten up. When she elbowed the vampire in groin, he couldn't help but double over, losing grip just enough for Abby to break free.

She glanced toward the exit to the outside world, but the lead vampire was already recovering and blocked her way. She backed away just as Dean was pushing up from the ground again.

"Abby! Go!" he shouted. "Run!"

He barely got chance to see the lead vampire herd her away from the exit, sending her in the direction of the stairwell instead. More hands and sharpened nails were grabbing at him again, bringing his attention back to the fight at hand, the other vampire's fangs descending as it tried to go for his neck. Sam pulled it back though, struggling with it for a moment until he had enough of an upper hand to speak.

"Go," Sam ordered, "I'll be fine. Go get her!"

Dean hesitated only a moment longer, but even he could see that a hunter like Sam had the remaining underlings under control. He raced off toward the stairwell, dragging himself up each step as he listened to the echoing of steps further up from the head vampire and Abby. He was passing the third floor doorway when he heard the clattering of another door up ahead, heard it bang against the wall, the subsequent noise echoing through the almost empty stairwell. The door was still swinging on its hinges, open and shut, open and shut, when Dean had finally dragged himself up to the fifth floor.

He pushed on and out, gaze searching the floor that was still under construction, the basic structures in place but the walls very much missing. Wind whistled through the rain and empty area, rustling the tarp and rattling at the metal poles strewn throughout. He strained his ears as he moved forward, each step careful and cautious, eyes moving back and forth as his fingers loosened and then tightened around the hilt of his machete.

Ducking beneath a tarp and moving further out onto the floor, he focused on his anger, feeding it in favour of the panic that settled just below the surface. The lights from outside danced across the floor and through the sheets of plastic hung up here and there, giving him just enough light to see whilst also offering him cover in the shadows – but then, that also meant it offered the head vamp cover too.

He could feel the wind on his skin and hear the tapping of rain as he neared the edge and moved closer toward the empty space that should have contained glass, the nonexistent window stretching from floor to ceiling. He only spared a moment to peer over the edge at the long drop below before turning back into the room and locking eyes with Abby as she pulled herself up from a hiding spot she had found.

"Dean!" she called, but even before the name left her mouth, the vampire was on her.

As she made to dash forward, the vampire lunged, catching her forearm tightly, bringing her to a stop. Swiftly, he manoeuvred her like she was his dance partner and he was the lead, pulling her in close and holding her that way as a dangerous smiled tugged at his lips. He ran a finger along her neck, across the same path the scar on his own neck travelled. "Oh, you're not getting away so easy. I still owe you for what you did to me."

"Let her go!" Dean demanded, drawing the vampire's gaze toward him once more.

The vampire tilted his head at Dean and pushed forward, closing the gap. "Don't think I've forgotten about you, _Dean_. Just like your little friend will get hers, you will get yours – right after I rip her throat out right in front of you."

The closer the vampire came, the more detail Dean could see on both their faces - the absolute terror shining in the tears in Abby's eyes as she refused to meet his gaze and the bliss in the vampire's eyes, practically glowing in the dim light. He probably would have torn through her skin right there and then, had another voice not ripped through the floor.

"Dean!" Sam called out from somewhere near the stairwell, less cautious and more like a man on a mission, someone on a warpath. His movements loud and rough, desperate.

"I'm giving you one chance," Dean said to the vampire, his voice a low and dangerous growl. "Let her go, and maybe – _maybe_ I'll make your death painless, because the way I see it, you're not leaving here alive. That sound right there, that means all your little vampire friends are dead, so give it up. You're done."

A snarl ticked at the corner of the vampire's mouth and he shook his head. "No. Not yet."

"Then how about this – let her go, and I'll give you a head start."

The vampire looked at him, gaze searching him, and in reality, Dean should have seen it coming. He should have known. After all, he had practically asked for it.

"Okay," the vampire answered, "I'll let her go, but if you want to save her, you better be a damn good catch."

At that, the vampire loosened his grip on Abby and pushed her forward, but rather than pushing her toward Dean, he made damn sure to push her just out of reach, using more force than was necessary. She tumbled toward the edge, and even as Dean reached out, machete falling from his grip, he couldn't stop her from going over. Hell, he could barely stop his own momentum as his own feet slipped on the wet ground.

One desperate hand reached out toward a metal pole sticking up from the floor as his other shot out for Abby, barely managing to grab hold of her arm. As he caught hold, he could feel the sharp and heavy tug along his shoulders, his body already straining from holding both his weight and hers.

"It's okay, Abby," he called, even as his heart thudded in his chest, "I've got you."

"Dean," she whispered, pleading. She cast her gaze downward toward the ground, and Dean could feel her panic already. "Oh God, Dean… I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Abby…" he tried, soft and controlled, though his mind was anything but. "Abby! Look at me! Focus on me. Come on – atta girl!"

He was only half aware of the sounds from up above, his gaze ticking upwards momentarily as he could feel his grip on the dampened pole straining. The sounds of a struggle followed by the last angered cry of the vampire before his head hit the floor. It wasn't until he heard Sam call out to him again that Dean called back.

"Over here! Out the window!" he shouted, attempting to readjust his grip when Abby slipped in it so he was holding onto her hand. But the motion, the tug against his body, caused his other hand to slip free completely from the pole above.

There was a moment he thought this was it, a moment where his heart jumped up into his throat as he felt his body drop. But hands were gripping at his wrist, keeping him from falling completely, Sam appearing and leaning over the edge as he flattened himself against the floor to keep from going over also.

Dean took a breath, looking between Sam and Abby. Sam was already straining, struggling to hold them both, so trying to pull them both up? No… they would all go. He was strong, but there was no way he was strong enough.

"Okay," Dean started, resolute as he came to his decision. "So here's what's going to happen… Abby? You listening to me?"

"Yeah, I'm listening," she answered, her voice a quiver.

"I'm going to swing you up and you've got to try and reach out for Sam's hand, okay?"

"Dean!" Sam reprimanded immediately, and it seemed the younger hunter knew exactly what Dean was thinking as he shook his head, his eyes going wide. "No, Dean…"

"What does he mean, 'no, Dean'?" Abby demanded, but Dean ignored her.

"Just hold on, okay, Abby?" Dean continued. "I'm going to start swinging, and then when I count to three-"

"No! Tell me! Dean... what does he mean?" Abby continued on, undeterred. "What are you doing?"

"He's trying to sacrifice himself," Sam answered. "If he swings you up, the only way for me to get a hold of you is to let go of him, and he knows it."

"You can't pull us both up," Dean countered. "And if you try, we could all go over. Two out of three ain't bad."

"No…" was Abby's answer, and she was shaking her head also. "No, no, no… Dean, I won't let you."

"You don't have a choice." He took a breath and looked up to Sam. "Save her, Sam. Save her, and let me go. I mean it."

"Dean," Sam tried to plead, "I can't do that… Don't make me do that."

"Damn it, Sam – this isn't up for discussion." He glared up at Sam, ignoring the feeling at the back of his mind that told him this wasn't the first time he had suggested something so reckless to the younger hunter. There was a familiarity about the whole situation, about that lost look in Sam's eyes, the way his jaw set tight and defiantly, that niggled at the dark corners of Dean's mind. There were so many questions to be answered, if only they had more time. If only there was another way.

Abby's voice cut through the silence, suddenly softening, a resolution settling into her tone that Dean recognised all too well.

"It's okay, Sam," she said, "it's gonna be okay."

"Abby?" Dean questioned, fear once more gripping at his chest.

"I'm sorry, Dean… I am so sorry. You gave me so much. You saw me when no one else did. I… Please, forgive me." A small and sad smile passed across her lips and she gave a nod, an odd kind of peace settling in her eyes. "Good bye, Dean…"

In one moment she was there and he was staring into her eyes, whilst in the next she was letting go of her own grip on him, her hand slipping free from his. Time seemed to slow as she fell, Dean's fingers stretching out in blind hope of somehow catching her, even though he knew it was too late.

"No!" he cried out after her, the word ripping up from his lungs and burning at his throat. "Abby! No!"

He barely felt Sam's hands adjust on his wrist and arm. Barely felt the younger hunter pulling him up and back over the edge. In fact, he barely felt anything at all, except a deep numbness that spread throughout as he couldn't tear his eyes away from what had to be a lie – what had to be a dream. A nightmare that he would he wake up from any moment now. Any moment.

It wasn't real… it couldn't be. He just had to wake up…

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.


	6. Chapter 6

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Come Back Home

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Hands dragged at Dean, pulling him back and away from the edge, even as his body pushed forward of its own will. His head spun, a low buzzing starting in his ears and spreading out until every other sound was drowned out, from the rain hammering down outside to the sound of his footsteps echoing on the tile floor. He pulled at the hands and fought against their grip until he was finally on the edge and looking over.

He knew what he was looking at. He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew. And yet, the comprehension of it all evaded him. His understanding of reality seemed to slip away, like he had fallen under and into a dream where gravity didn't exist. Death didn't exist. The rain, the wind, the building, his own body… and the way it swayed, on the edge, almost going over, until the hands from before were on his shoulders, pulling him back and spinning him away from the edge once more.

Hazel eyes stared into his own blank gaze and he blinked at them, blinked at the worry and fear lacing the lines of the face that looked back at him.

"Dean…" a voice echoed through the haze and the buzzing, and Dean realised the face was speaking to him, mouth opening and closing. "Dean!"

Dean frowned and made to turn back toward the edge, but the hands stopped him and held him firm. "I… I need to…"

"She's gone, Dean," the voice said, and the louder the voice became, the more the fog in his mind began to clear, the more reality seeped in again. "She's dead…"

"No… no. She's…" But he couldn't get the words out, couldn't keep his thoughts straight. "I – I was supposed to protect her. I was supposed to look out for her. That's my job…"

_"I had to look out for you. That's my job."_

_"And what do you think my job is?"_

_"What?"_

_"You're my big brother, and there's nothing I wouldn't do for you."_

Pain sliced through his head as the echo of a memory played out inside his mind, voices mixed together, confused. He didn't notice that the world was spinning, didn't notice that he was swaying, until he felt the hands on him again, moving from his shoulders and up to his face.

Absently, Dean lifted a hand up to his nose, pulling it away to look down at the blood now coating his skin, brow burrowed, confused.

"Dean! Dean… stay with me."

He swallowed hard and lifted his gaze again, the same face from before coming into focus, hovering in front of him. "Sam?"

But before any other thoughts or questions could pass through his mind, an explosion of pain blossomed out, blinding him to everything else. Everything turned white, the intensity of the pain too much for him to even distinguish the source. Then, as quick as it came, it was gone, fading and falling away, along with his consciousness.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

For the briefest of moments, Dean looked at him and Sam saw recognition in his brother's eyes. He saw Dean, the Dean he knew. Then Dean was doubled over in pain, gripping his head and letting go of a too long and agonised cry. Sam felt helpless as he followed Dean down to his knees, his grip tightening around Dean's arm, almost afraid to let go. Rowena's words echoed around Sam's mind.

He was so distracted by the thoughts that it took him a moment to realise Dean had gone limp in his arms. As soon as he did, Sam was pulling back, looking Dean over, his heart in his throat at the momentary panic until he saw the rise and fall of his brother's chest. Not dead. Not yet. But that didn't mean he was in the clear either.

Sam could see it, every time Dean had looked him in the eye. Seeing Sam, it caused a conflict in his memories, and as Rowena had said – when that dam finally broke, there would be consequences. It left Sam wondering if this was it.

With Dean unresponsive, Sam did the only thing he could do. He gathered Dean up and trudged back down the stairs and out to the car. It was only when he had bundled Dean up in the car that he cast his eyes back toward the building and toward the figure that lay on the ground out the front. She looked so broken, like a doll cast aside, and as the rain continued to pour, Sam knew he couldn't leave her there.

Sam barely slept that night. Hell, he barely slept the next few days either. He loaded up on caffeine and set his phone to wake him every two to three hours when he did sleep.

Dean had woken after the first night, physically unharmed – but any recognition in his eyes had gone. His only memories of Sam were from the last few days and their meeting during the rawhead hunt. To him, Sam was the cause of everything. To him, if Sam hadn't turned up then neither would the vampires and Abby would still be alive. He never said as much, not yet at least, but Sam knew Dean well enough to see it written clearly in the lines of his face. He could hear it in the lengthy silences between them, see it in the tightened jaw and feel it in the tension that sat in the air like a permanent presence.

It gave Sam the chance to witness a very different broken side of Dean he had only ever scratched the surface of before. In their lives, they had lost so much, from family to friends. They had lost each other countless times, so Sam was used to seeing a grieving Dean. But this, this was different. For the first time ever, Sam was seeing the immediate fallout of a Dean who had essentially just lost Sam – because to this Dean, Abby was his Sam. His entire world. His purpose. And whilst Sam knew Dean's grieving, he had only ever witnessed such a loss once before and even that wasn't immediate and was from a distance – back when Sam had jumped into the cage and a soulless version of himself had been dragged back out.

Sam knew his brother. He knew Dean's patterns and self sacrificing behaviour. That was why he barely slept. That was why Sam watched. He watched his brother in mourning. The anger, the grief, the silence. From Dean waking up to his final admittance that they had to burn Abby's body, Sam watched – waiting for any signs that his brother was going to try something stupid – like make a deal or try to talk with Death.

It was on the fifth day that Sam caught Dean packing and asked where he was going. His response had been short. The bunker. After all, there was nothing around there for him anymore, except memories that were now bittersweet. Sam had expected a fight when he had suggested they take his car. He had expected Dean to tell him to stay away. But instead, Dean's response was one of indifference, and if Sam was honest, that cut far deeper than the anger did.

Sam sat in the car waiting, phone to his ear as his eyes focused on the door to the apartment building. He hated leaving Dean alone to pack in that empty apartment, and whilst he knew that whatever memories Dean had of Abby weren't real, the grief was. He needed the space to offer up a good bye of sorts, and so Sam gave it to him, using the opportunity to phone ahead to the bunker.

"Hello?" Castiel answered, voice gruff and cautious.

"Cas," Sam breathed out, glad to hear the voice of a friend. He swallowed at the lump in his throat before speaking again. "I'm bringing him home, Cas, but I need you to empty the bunker. From what I can tell, Dean can't remember anything about the last year and I don't want anything to trigger him until we know how to deal with this."

"I understand," Cas said, and Sam imagined him to be nodding. "What about Jack?"

Jack. Sam closed his eyes at that. "It's too risky. We don't know what he remembers about Jack. If all he remembers is that he's Lucifer's son… No. It wouldn't be good for either of them."

"I'll call Mary."

"Thanks, Cas." Sam took another breath, gaze going to the doorway once more as Dean emerged with his bags. "We'll see you soon."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

If he was honest, Dean barely even remembered the drive. He was much too lost in his own thoughts. He thought he would find some kind of peace by returning to the bunker, but instead, as he walked through the door and into the bunker, Dean couldn't help but feel as hollow and empty as the bunker was. The silence of the space stretched on, the only sound coming from Sam's footsteps behind him and the sound of the heavy door as the younger man closed it – sealing them inside that cavernous tomb that now felt cold where it had once felt warm. To Dean, as he stood at the top of the stairs and looked out and over at what he could see of the bunker, it was like looking out at another world.

He looked down at the railing in front of him, his hand hovering above it, as if an invisible force was keeping him separate from everything else. But he knew there was no force there. Nothing physical at least. Even so, he could feel the pressure of an invisible box pushing in on him, suffocating him and making him feel claustrophobic and trapped despite the large expanse ahead of him. To call the sensation a bubble didn't do it justice. A bubble implied fragility. A bubble implied that the force could be broken by the simplest of touches. No, the walls surrounding him were as heavy and thick as lead.

"Dean?" he heard Sam say behind him, feeling the touch of the man's hand on his shoulder.

In response, Dean stiffened and straightened up, reaching down to grab his bags once more and turning toward the steps leading down. "I'm going to take a shower."

Sam said nothing to that, and though Dean could feel the younger man's eyes on him, Sam made no attempt to follow. There was a small twinge in Dean's gut, possibly guilt, possibly anger. He couldn't be too sure at that point. All he knew was that he could barely even look at the man. Every time he did, pain sliced through Dean's head, his mind becoming foggy.

Being back there, back in the bunker, it was supposed to make things clearer. Dean had thought the buzzing and confusion would ease. He had thought he would stop remembering things that were impossible and would instead see that this Sam guy was full of crap…

_"She's_ _not your sister."_

The words echoed around Dean's mind, scratching at his already fragile psyche.

Not his sister? Of course Abby was his sister. He remembered his parents bringing her home, a small bundle all swaddled up tight. He remembered the joy of being a big brother, excited for his new role. He remembered how delicate she had been, laid in her crib as they tucked her in for the night.

_"So what do you think? Do you think Sammy's ready to toss around a football yet?"_

Closing the door to the bathroom behind him, Dean leaned back onto it and closed his eyes tight, bringing his hands up to rub at his temples. Conflicting memories ticked across his thoughts, each one as vivid as the last but every time he tried to grab hold of one to look closer at it, to really study the details, it disappeared, falling away from his grasp.

_"I can't lose you."_

The words were so clear and loud in his memory. The desperation, the pleading. He could hear it in Abby's voice, but he could hear it in Sam's too. What was he supposed to believe when his heart and mind couldn't decide on which was real, which was true?

Anger and frustration boiled up through him, leaving on a long growl and grunt as he pushed away from the door and swung around to land a punch on the rough surface. Pain spiked in his knuckles, the harsh impact travelling up through his arm. If nothing else, it gave him something to momentarily focus on. It gave him something that he knew was real. Something that could ground him, if only for a short while.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Sam hung back as they entered the bunker. He found he was doing that a lot lately. But what other choice did he have? If he moved too quickly, Dean would only run. Then there was the warning Rowena had given him. How was Sam supposed to break the spell Dean was under, how was he supposed to remind Dean of who he really was, when doing so could cause Dean's mind to collapse?

So Sam hung back. As Dean disappeared down the steps and along the halls, Sam moved slowly into the bunker. When he reached the table in the main area, he dumped his bags down and pulled his phone from his pocket, toying with it a moment before placing it down beside the bags. Rowena would call if she found something. She had said as much. And Cas? He would be back once Jack was safe with Mary.

That left Sam alone in the bunker with a brother that looked at him as if he were a stranger.

He closed his eyes a moment, steadying his thoughts before letting go of a long breath and turning his attention toward the bags on the table. Taking a seat, he dug into one of the bags and pulled out the box he had retrieved from Abby's room. Her box of tricks. He had taken it when Dean had been passed out and opened it up now as if it would somehow give him the answers he needed.

It didn't.

He thought about burning the contents, but there was no guarantee that would have an effect and he wasn't prepared to make anything worse. Still, it didn't make it any easier going through what was inside. Looking through the photographs was the hardest part. It took him back to the job in Oregon.

Abby had seemed so harmless. She was just some reporter doing a story on the disappearances in town. At least, that was how it seemed. But now, looking back, Sam could see the odd little behaviours, the way she clammed up or always happened to be where they were. They had been so preoccupied by the case that they hadn't even noticed her following them, and Sam certainly hadn't noticed her taking any of the pictures.

He placed the photos on the tabletop and looked into the box once more, moving empty hex bags aside and dried petals that had fallen free of the forget-me-nots. That was when the worn bits of paper at the bottom of the box caught his attention. He pulled them free and for a second, his breath left him. Two missing pieces to the puzzle that was Abby, and whilst neither made complete sense, Sam was beginning to put the picture together.

In one hand he held the front cover of an extremely worn and well loved paperback novel. The rest of the book was missing, but he didn't need to see the back or read the pages to know what the story was about. He had lived it. He and Dean both had. Supernatural by Carver Edlund. Whilst that explained how Abby had known so much about them, it as the paper in his other hand that added to the mystery of it all.

It was a page from a yearbook, folded up in such a way that one particular portrait and name was the centre of attention. Dean Winchester.

Had his mind been clearer, he was certain he would have been able to put more of it together. But the way he felt, the worry that weighed heavily on his shoulders, the anger that turned his stomach – he could barely see five feet ahead of him, let alone think straight. Still, it didn't stop him from pulling his laptop out in a vain attempt at research.

He couldn't be sure how long he had been sat there, or how long he had been attempting to read the same sentence over and over before giving up to stare blankly at the screen in front of him instead. But when the sound of the heavy bunker door opening and closing pulled him from his daze, Sam was thankful. He let go of a weary breath and leaned back in his chair, twisting his head just enough to look in the direction of the familiar oncoming footsteps that padded down the stairwell.

"Sam," Castiel said in greeting as he emerged through the archway, only coming to a stop once he was beside the table. His gaze looked over Sam, brow burrowed deeply and frown tugging at his lips, before looking out into the empty corridors beyond. "Where is he?"

"He's… er, showering," Sam answered, pushing the laptop closed with one hand as he used the other to rub at the back of his neck. He glanced down the same corridors Castiel did, shaking his head and closing his eyes a moment. When he reopened them, he looked to Cas and tried for a hopeful smile, not that either of them were falling for it.

"We'll get him back, Sam," Cas pushed, determination underlying the low gravel of his voice.

"At what cost?" Sam's eyes found the photos and he felt his chest tighten once more at the sight of them. "You should see him, Cas. The way he looks at me… He barely even trusts me and whenever I think I see even the tiniest glimpse of recognition, that's when it starts. He's Dean, so he tries to hide it, but I know him. I know when my brother is in pain."

"Well, that certainly sounds like Dean."

"And that's it. It is. He's Dean, through and through. He just doesn't remember me." Sam looked down at his hands, swallowing at the lump in his throat. "Part of me thinks, is that so bad? If it keeps him sane, is it really so bad that he doesn't remember? But I just… He's my brother, Cas. When we've had nothing else, we had each other. How can I let that go?"

"Sam," Castiel started in reply, tone soft and understanding, but the rest of his words fell away. His attention had moved, and it was only when Sam looked up to see the angel looking toward the doorway that he understood why.

He turned his own attention to the doorway just in time to see Dean turn away, heading off back down the corridor. The elder hunter said nothing, and Sam wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad sign. He started to push up from his seat to go after Dean, but Castiel held out a hand in front of him.

"You need to rest, Sam," Cas instructed, already moving around the table to head off to follow Dean. "If it's as you say, maybe he'll trust me. I might be able to convince him to let me see just how fractured his memories are."

"Do you think that's a good idea?"

"No," Cas answered with a shake of his head. "But right now, it's the only one we've got."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.


	7. Stuck Inside

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Stuck Inside

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Dean took the familiar steps toward his room and, once there, closed the door behind himself. His hands formed loose fists, frustration running through him, his right hand tightening around the damp towel there. After another breath, he threw it toward the bed, barely even taking notice of how it landed, which was far more gently than he would have liked. He paced back and forth, back and forth, unable to stay still, unable to keep in one place.

He couldn't even truly explain why he was so angry. Nothing about the conversation between Cas and Sam had been hurtful or aggressive, or even deserving of the anger that rushed through Dean now. But then, perhaps that was it – it was what wasn't there that made his blood boil. It was as if they weren't even acknowledging that Abby had even been alive, let alone that she was now… gone.

And Cas… Cas. Again and again they had tried to reach him. But all that time, had he been in on it with Sam? Pain sliced through Dean's head as he tried to make sense of it all. Tried to make sense of Sam having Castiel's phone, of the way they were so familiar, so close.

_"He's my brother, Cas. When we've had nothing else, we had each other. How can I let that go?"_

No. That wasn't right. Abby was his sister. Abby was all Dean had left. Or at least she had been. Now…

_"He's bad news, Dean. You're in danger whenever he's around. If it's between him and you getting hurt, it's always… Dean, I can't lose you."_

What had Abby meant by that? She knew Sam, and the more Dean thought back to when he had seen the pair together – Sam knew her too. There had been something going on between them, something they were keeping from Dean and now that Abby was… wasn't there, how was Dean supposed to find out what that something was? After all, what was it they said? Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.

A gentle knock on the door drew Dean's attention that way, Castiel's voice drifting through, the angel pushing the door open before receiving permission to enter. "Dean?"

Dean stopped in his pacing and looked toward Castiel but said nothing.

Cas pushed further into the room, closing the door behind himself before awkwardly shuffling from foot to foot, head down a moment before raising it to meet Dean's gaze. "Dean, I'm –"

"You're what?" Dean interrupted, eyebrows raised, accusation lining his tone and features. "You're sorry? You're worried? You were too damn late?"

Cas had nothing to say, or if he did, Dean didn't give him chance to say it. Instead Dean surged forward until he was face to face with the angel.

"Why didn't you answer your damn phone? You should have been there."

"Dean, I assure you – if you had called, I would have answered."

At that, Dean scoffed and turned away. "He switched your phone, didn't he?"

A frown formed on Castiel's face, his head tilting to the side, like a confused puppy. "Who? Sam?"

"Who else?" Dean spat out, shaking his head as he did so. "He certainly has you fooled, doesn't he?"

"I understand. You're confused. This spell-"

"Spell?" Dean growled out. "And what spell is that?"

"The one that this girl, this _Abby_, cast."

Dean shook his head, his jaw tightening. "Abby is – _was_, my sister. If anyone is under a spell, it's you."

"No, Dean, she wasn't," Castiel implored, taking a step forward but keeping his voice level. "And I think, deep down, you know that."

Dean said nothing, merely offering up a sneer as he stalked away from Cas and toward the chair at his desk. He gripped the back of it tightly, using it to ground himself, to keep himself from lashing out.

"Your name is Dean Winchester and your brother is Sam Winchester."

"No," Dean snapped, pushing the word out through gritted teeth as he pointed toward the doorway. "I don't know him. He – he is _nothing_ to me."

"You were working a case in Oregon. Vampires. But you went missing. We believe you were hexed." Cas took a step forward, letting go of a breath. "If you would just let me… I can fix this, Dean. I can help you see the truth. But only if you let me."

"The truth? And what is that, Cas?" Dean looked to Castiel, shoulders and jaw squaring as he stared the angel down, tension running through every inch of his body. "How can you be so sure that I'm the one under a spell and not the other way around?"

"Dean…"

"No, Cas. The answer's no." He shook his head. "My entire life…" He paused to take a breath, tongue snaking out to dampen his lips before continuing on. "From the angels, the Mark… Michael… I've had enough of people messing with my mind. No more, Cas. No mo-…"

But Dean's words fell away, his own thoughts catching up with him as the words sunk in. Michael. Michael had been… He had… There was a memory there, but when Dean tried to reach out for it, it disappeared beneath the waves of darkness. He closed his eyes and could see his own face reflected back at him through a broken mirror, but he couldn't reach out past the glass. He couldn't grab a hold of the memory that taunted him.

"Dean?" Cas questioned, taking a step forward. His voice was filled with concern, but when he made to reach out a hand to place on Dean's shoulder, Dean pulled away and moved toward his bed instead.

"You should go, Cas."

But Cas didn't move. Instead he looked up toward the ceiling and opened his mouth, letting go of a frustrated breath of air.

"_Leave_, Cas," Dean pushed a little more forcefully, turning away from the angel now and focusing instead on the blank wall ahead of him, staring at the cracks there with an angered intensity they didn't deserve.

There was a moment when Dean thought Castiel would push it, would continue on until Dean burst completely. But he didn't. After another breath, he turned and left, closing the door behind him and leaving the room feeling suddenly a lot colder and a lot emptier than Dean had expected.

Dean swallowed hard and cast a glance at the doorway, the whole while trying to push down the doubt that knotted up his insides and raced through his mind. No. It wasn't true. Castiel was wrong. He was Dean Winchester. Abigail Winchester was his sister. His parents were John and Mary Winchester… That was the truth. It was his truth. But then, why did it still feel like there was a hole missing inside his memories? Why did it leave him feeling like he was floating along, in a dream of some kind where any minute, any second now, he would wake up?

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

When Sam heard footsteps approaching from down the hallway, he began to push himself up from the seat at the table. He had made it halfway, his fingertips still tracing the wooden top, when Cas came into view. He took a breath, allowing himself for just one moment to feel the tiniest slither of hope. But the look on Castiel's face – the way the angel pulled his lips together, his brow burrowed in deep thought – Sam knew before Cas even spoke. Still, didn't stop him from asking.

"Well?" he questioned, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

Castiel shook his head. "Whatever spell your witch used on him, it's powerful. He's confused and angry."

"With me… He blames me for her death."

"It's more than that. I think he knows something is wrong and you're the piece that doesn't fit. So all that anger, all that chaos inside his head – I doubt even he knows where to aim it."

Sam bobbed his head, leaning against the tabletop and looking down to the laptop he had been working at. But it stayed out of focus, his mind too preoccupied with Dean. "Can you do it? Can you get into his head and fix it?"

There was a beat of a silence and a breath from Cas before the angel answered. "Sam, I… even if he allowed me, his mind is so fragile. Breaking down such walls… I don't know what it would do."

"You've done it before. With me."

"And look what that did to you." Cas shook his head. "It's too dangerous, Sam. Until Dean is ready to accept the truth, it could break him completely."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

_At some point, between the last glass of whisky and the music cutting out through his headphones, Dean had fallen asleep. He drifted into a not so peaceful slumber. The dream took hold, dragging him deeper and deeper into corridors that were filled with tarp and construction gear, his feet pounding against the floor as he chased the shadows up ahead, only one name on his lips._

_"Abby!" he called out, his heart racing as fast as his mind, chest tightening at the drips of blood along the floor._

_He continued on, until he felt the rush of wind against his face as he came up to the edge of the floor, where a window should have been. His stomach dropped, but his gaze refused to. He couldn't make himself look over. He didn't dare. So when he heard the skittering of feet behind him, he swung immediately to face the owner with hope swelling in his chest._

_It faded all too quickly, along with everything else._

_The building disappeared. The half finished walls and empty divisions. The wind and rain from the outside beyond. All gone. Instead, he found himself facing a different corridor, the one that resembled a dark, dank basement of sorts, and instead of finding himself face to face with the familiar gaze of Abby – a different set of eyes looked back at him._

_They were darker and hungrier, the sharpness to them matching the sharp fangs that descended in the mouth of the vampire as its hand shot out to grip Dean by the neck, forcing him back against a very firm wall that hadn't been there moments before._

_"I bet you taste as good as you smell, Winchester," the vampire cooed, running his tongue across his bottom lip. _

_Dean's hands formed fists, and he realised he was holding something tightly in his right. His fingers flexed as he cast his gaze down toward the machete, but before he could raise it, the vampire was gripping his wrist and keeping it in place. All strength was fading from Dean's body, and he suspected that it had something to do with the pain in his neck and the dampness that settled around the area. _

_"Dean!"a voice called out from the darkness of the corridor beyond the vampire, almost drowned out by the loud pumping of blood in Dean's ears._

_"Wait your turn, Girl," the vampire growled, but it refused to turn away from Dean, teeth too eager, hunger too present, "I'll get to you in a minute."_

But as the vampire made to lunge, made to bite into Dean and finish what the other vampire had started, Dean surged forward, sitting upright on his bed. It took him a few moments to pull himself completely from the dream and catch his breath, but once he did, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and rested his elbows against his knees as he lowered his head into his hands.

He stayed like that, not thinking on anything in particular, but rather just allowing himself to be. There was a hole inside his chest and an even larger one inside his mind. He tried to tell himself that it was because of Abby, because she wasn't there. She was gone and he hadn't been able to save her and he wasn't sure how he was meant to deal with that. But it was more than that. That dream, the vampire and that dark corridor, it kept haunting him.

He pushed out a harsh breath and looked up toward the ceiling. Everything was pushing down on him, drowning him, and he was struggling to break free, to reach the surface of the murky waters keeping him trapped beneath.

His entire life, he had been different. Ever since the fire had taken his mom, his life had changed. There was no denying he had tried to fit in. Hell, he even remembered making friends the first few years – school after school after school. Until one day it hit him. He remembered it, taking a seat at the back of his new classroom, feeling like a bubble was closing in around him. The other kids talked and laughed, throwing bits of paper at each other as the teacher upfront tried to get them to quieten down. And he sat there, enclosed in an invisible box that kept him separate from everything and everyone else.

That was when he truly started begging John to take him hunting and that was when he found his place. With a gun in his hand and a hunt on his mind, he belonged. For a long time, he belonged.

But now… the bubble closed in once more. In that dark, dark bunker, down that dark, dark corridor, in that dark, dark room… he once lived. He once found home. Nothing about it was particularly different. Nothing about it had changed. Nothing about it was out of place.

Except for him.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.


	8. Echo

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Echo

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

The bright light from the laptop screen lit up Sam's face, but even that wasn't enough to keep his eyes from closing. He was fading fast, his lack of sleep catching up with him. Still, he fought it, blinking and rubbing a hand across his face and up through his hair as he pushed back in his chair a little. He pushed out a breath and tried to refocus on the screen in front of him once more.

"Sam," Cas spoke gently as he approached the table, placing a mug next to Sam, "you should sleep."

"Yeah, I should," Sam agreed, trying his best to stifle a yawn as he did so. "But unless I figure out a way to help Dean, I could lose him, and I'm not prepared to do that."

"And you think you'll find the answers on the website for West Springs High school?" Cas questioned, hovering behind Sam and leaning over his shoulder just enough to squint at the same page Sam had been staring at for the last twenty minutes.

"Abigail – the girl who cast the spell – this is where she was from." Sam motioned to the screen before tugging the box of tricks toward him once more and pulling out the piece of torn yearbook paper. "I think this is where she first met Dean. We stayed there one summer. Dad was working a case in a town nearby so he shoved us in local high school. It was one of the only times we were in a place long enough to even have a yearbook."

"And you think this Abigail attached herself to Dean there?"

"It's possible. Then with Chuck's books… she knew everything about us." Sam sighed, fingers wrapping around the warm mug Cas had brought for him. It wasn't much of a coffee, but it was a caffeine kick regardless.

"Do you think she intentionally followed you to Oregon?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't know. At first, maybe she was trying to find us but in Oregon… I don't think she actually expected to see us. Still, she didn't exactly stumble on that spell by accident, or those pictures." He motioned to the box and the photos it held inside.

Cas took a seat at the end of the table and pulled the box toward him, looking over its contents idly. "More than likely, she saw an opportunity and took it."

"But why Dean?"

"Maybe she saw something in him… something she had been missing in her own life."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Dean had lost track of how long he had been sitting on the edge of his bed, head in his hands. He had lost track of a lot of things lately and he wasn't entirely sure what to make of it anymore. There were a lot of things to be unsure about in his life, but through it all, he thought that at least he knew his own mind. Of course, there had been times when demons and angels and other beings had messed with him, but there had always been something there underneath it. There had always been a persistent itch that scratched and scratched and scratched at the walls of his mind, telling him that something was wrong.

Maybe that was what scared him.

He knew who he was. He knew who his family was. He knew in his heart and mind that Abby was his sister and this Sam was some imposter… and yet, there it was. That ever persistent itch.

Why?

He swallowed hard and lifted his head from his hands to stare straight ahead at the wall of his room. The familiar wall that looked exactly the same as he remembered it. Even as he flicked the light on and the shadows were chased away, everything fit. The room, it was his. But outside of that room, that was where things began to fall apart.

A quick glance at his phone told him it was still far too early for him to be awake and up and about, but his mind couldn't settle and if he slept, he knew it would just be filled with nightmares once more. So he grabbed his robe from the back of his door and pulled it on before leaving the room and pushing out into bunker.

It was hollow and cold, and he shoved his hands into the pockets of the gown as he headed down the silent corridors toward the kitchen. It was too early for Scotch and he wasn't hungry enough for food, but he knew he needed something and if that something was a good cup of black coffee, then so be it. That was what he went for.

With a fresh cup of coffee in hand, he held it close and took a long breath, allowing the caffeine to wash over his senses before heading off once more into the bunker. There were no signs of Sam or Cas, for which Dean was thankful, and judging by the abandoned laptop and half finished cup on the main table in the library of the bunker, he figured the former must have finally given up and gone to sleep.

Dean stood at the archway for a moment, leaning against it was he looked over the scene, taking it in. It took another breath before he dared venture further inside, one hand still holding his mug as he used the fingers of his spare hand to trail across the wooden surface of the table, his eyes on the laptop and mind wondering what he would find there.

However, his thoughts were drawn away as his fingers passed over the rough etchings on the table. He looked down at the DW clearly scratched into the wood, a vague memory playing out in the back of his mind, but there was a large hole missing in that memory, and when Dean lifted his fingertips to reveal the second set of initials in the table, his heart skittered in his chest.

SW.

He closed his eyes and shook his head. No. That… it couldn't. It was impossible.

But there was no mistaking it. The letters were clear, even in the dim light.

_"What do you think our legacy's gonna be? When we're gone, after all the stuff that we've done, think folks will remember us? You know, like, a hundred years from now."_

_"No."_

_"Oh, that's nice."_

_"Guys like us, we're not exactly the type of people they write about in history books, you know? But the people we saved, they're our legacy."_

Dean took a breath, tracing the letters with his fingertips, his gaze following the movements they took.

_"What are you doin'?"_

_"Leaving our mark."_

"Sam…" Dean whispered, the name slipping out onto his tongue without him meaning it to. He tried to swallow around it, tried to quell that aching in his chest that told him he was missing something, but there was just no denying that there was something there.

Taking a seat in front of the laptop, he pushed the other cup away and put his down beside him as he used his other hand to power the laptop up. It hadn't been turned off completely, just put to sleep, and it whirred back to life with the same stuff open on it as had no doubt been open when it had gone to sleep, along with its owner.

West Springs High school.

A frown settled on Dean's face, tugging at his brow. Abby had mentioned West Springs before. Just days earlier, she had brought up the douche from the football team, Brock Johnson and the incident under the bleachers. Dean stared at the webpage and tried to make sense of it, tried to understand the link. But it didn't make sense. None of it made sense.

Pushing out a frustrated breath, Dean closed the laptop and shook his head. It was then that his eyes landed on the box on the table. It wasn't anything remarkable, but Dean had enough experience with many different things to know that a box didn't have to be remarkable to be trouble. Perhaps that was why he was so reluctant to pull it closer and take a look inside.

Everything was already muddled up in his mind without anything adding fuel to the fire… and yet, he couldn't resist and no sooner had he looked, he wished he hadn't.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Sam was almost out of his room, door half open, when Cas ran into him, looking more than a little flustered.

"Sam," the angel pushed out, more tension than usual coating his voice.

"Cas?" Sam questioned, leaning out and looking up and down the corridor for the figurative fire that had Castiel looking so anxious. "What's going on?"

"It's Dean," Cas answered, taking a step back.

There was a flitter of anxiety in Sam's heart, his brows knitting together as a frown found its way onto his face. "What about him?"

"He's err," Cas continued, before flapping his arms and straightening himself out again, taking in a deep breath and letting it out with a shake of his head. "He's gone."

As soon as the words left Castiel's mouth, Sam was moving. He pushed out of his room, heading down the corridor until he came to Dean's ajar door. His movements were tentative as he pushed it open all the way and took in every inch of the room, every inch of the very empty room.

"I already checked," Cas said from behind him. "And I checked the bathrooms and the kitchen and the library. He's gone."

"Gone?" Sam swallowed hard. "How can he be gone? We only just got him back."

"I did find something," Cas went on, already taking the first few steps down the corridor toward the library. "You're going to want to see this."

Sam followed in silence until they reached the table in the library Sam had been set up at before. Aside from what Sam figured must have been the abandoned bag of groceries Cas had left the bunker for, the laptop still sat there, open, and the bits and pieces from Abby's box were spread out across the surface of the table. Cas clicked a button on the laptop and turned it enough for Sam to see.

"This is…"

"Chuck's books. He must have seen the cover from the box and done some digging."

Sam sank into one of the chairs and pulled the laptop closer. The books weren't the only thing that Dean had been looking into. He had been researching Sam too – from 'death' certificates and FBI records, even down to files from Stanford.

He felt his stomach drop. With that much information at once, how was Dean supposed to take it in? Rowena had warned Sam about what could happen and now Dean was missing again? Sam knew all too well what a break in your mind could feel like. Hell, he'd been there. He had gone through hell after coming back from, well – Hell.

The thoughts were already twisting at his mind, leaving dark and worrisome images in their tracks when the sound of the bunker door had his gaze shooting toward Cas. Slowly, Sam pushed up and both of them moved on toward the entrance of the bunker, unsure of what exactly they would find. A rain soaked Dean standing at the top of the staircase was most definitely not what Sam expected, but it was certainly better than the alternative.

"Dean?" he questioned, his voice barely a breath, unsure and cautious.

Dean didn't quite meet their eyes as he walked down the stairwell, his features as carefully composed as each step. It wasn't until he reached the bottom, along with Sam and Cas, that he lifted his gaze and swallowed hard.

"Okay," he said, splaying his hands. "Let's do this."

"Dean," Cas started, already a step ahead of Sam's mind, "are you sure? This could be dangerous."

Pulling himself from his wet coat and draping it over the railing, he held his arms out wide. "Honestly – I'm not sure of anything anymore."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Dean felt like his mind was splitting in two. If he thought too hard on it, his memories became more and more muddled, like distorted moving images overlapped and out of sync. They bled into each other, the differences subtle but there, and the problem Dean was having was that everything – _every_ _God damn thing_ – from the internet searches to the random marks left around the bunker, they all fit with what Sam and Cas had both said to him. It just didn't fit with him… not completely.

Sitting there, in the centre of the bunker, with all of that pushing down on him – it had been like the walls themselves were closing in. That was why he had found himself outside, wandering the road for no other reason than to escape the claustrophobia of the place he was supposed to call home. The rain had been refreshing, or maybe he had just felt too numb to care about how wet he had been getting. Regardless, his feet took him further and further until he could go no more. Until his chest felt so tight and his mind so confused that he knew, without answers, without something concrete, he would surely crumble.

So he made his way back, forced himself through the door and down the steps, feeling like a shadow of the person he once was, like an echo disappearing more and more as time went on. He was barely even aware of the words coming out of his mouth or the ones being said to him in return, barely away of his movements toward the library and of taking a seat at the head of the long table.

"Okay, Dean," Cas said, his words gentle and a little apprehensive, "are you ready?"

Dean cleared his throat and nodded, focusing his gaze ahead on the stacks of books but paying little attention to them.

"Right…"

There was a moment's silence, and Dean imagined Cas and Sam to be sharing a worried glance, but before the image could form in his mind, Cas was placing his hands on the sides of Dean's head. The sudden intensity that hit him had him taking an involuntary breath, as if he had just been plunged head first into a river… but instead of finding himself drowning in water, it was images that washed over him, words crackling through static that rang out in his head.

It was all mashed together – from cradling a young baby as he sat on the hood of the Impala, a mere bairn himself, to waking up in that hospital, unsure of anything except his name. He remembered Abby crying beneath the bleachers as he wrapped his coat around her shoulders, but he also remembered wrestling a young floppy haired Sam for the TV remote.

Bright light crashed across his vision and pain split through his head. He felt a scream rip from his throat and felt his body arch. There were words there, words that weren't memories, despite how familiar the voices were. He tried to blink the light away, but felt like all he was seeing were after images. As the pain worsened, like lightening shooting through his entire being, he was sure he saw the bunker briefly, sure he felt the dripping of warm blood from his nose once more… but when he tried to focus, tried to bring himself out of whatever it was that gripped him now, the only thing he could see was the vision of a girl at the end of the table, looking at him, watching him… forlorn and lost. And as she flickered, like an image on a broken film reel, Dean felt his world turn to black, one name on his lips.

"Abby?"

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come soon...


End file.
